


This Hopeless, Doomed Devotion

by saunatonttu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Typical Violence, Chapter-specific warnings inside, Childhood Memories, Difficult Parent-Child Relationships, Faerghus Typical Nonsense, Gen, M/M, Memories, Politics, Pre-Canon, Requited Feelings (For Now)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 77,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23262025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saunatonttu/pseuds/saunatonttu
Summary: It all began when Patricia invited him to join her for a stroll and a talk.Years later, Rodrigue would wonder: was it an act of kindness, or an act of utmost cruelty?
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Glenn Fraldarius & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Rufus Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 28
Kudos: 38





	1. here is our end

Clouds covered the skies above Castle Fhirdiad on the day Lady Patricia requested his company for a stroll in the gardens. As curious as it was, Rodrigue did not deny her, though he raised his eyebrows at the absence of her usual handmaidens as she led them into the castle gardens with silence more befitting of a graveyard.

Lady Patricia waved the guards off with a simple, refined flick of her wrist. Just like that, Rodrigue walked alone with her, a few steps behind to be polite. The silence continued until she paused to admire Gautier roses barely in bloom, Rodrigue’s steps halting with her.

“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue began, hands tucked behind his back. “You wished to discuss something with me, I take it?”

“You needn’t call me that.” Lady Patricia’s voice was gentle but the words firm. Her gaze remained down, on the flowers and their fragile, sun-searching petals. “I hardly participate in governing as is.”

It was true: hardly anyone outside the inner circles of the court even knew of Lady Patricia.

“Even so,” Rodrigue replied evenly, following the movements of Patricia’s fingers as they hovered over the roses, “you are His Majesty’s beloved wife.”

Even now, Rodrigue recalled the wedding, kept private and away from the public eye. How happy His Majesty had been with Patricia’s arm around his. He recalled the king’s loud, echoing laughter after a few too many glasses of wine the best, but the wedding waltz had been memorable in its own way.

Lambert… he had been so happy on that day, so different from the melancholic mood his first wife’s death had pushed him into.

Both the wedding and that time were many years behind them now, however, and so Rodrigue pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and curled the gloved fingers behind his back. Lady Patricia had yet to answer him, still observing the pale hues of Gautier roses.

Finally, she said, “There is indeed… something I wished to discuss, Duke Fraldarius.” Her lavender eyes flickered to him then, and Rodrigue thought he caught a glimpse of a worried furrow between her brows before her gaze fell once more. “I have been unsure how to approach both you and my husband about it… perhaps it is not my place to say anything.”

“His Majesty would do anything to ease any worry you may have, my lady,” Rodrigue said, as sure of his words as he was of the air he breathed. Though, recently, Lambert had been more and more worried of the lack of alone time he had spent with Patricia… Perhaps the worry went both ways, after all. Rodrigue mustered a small smile as he continued,“You needn’t fret… I, as well, would be glad to lend an ear if it were to put you at ease.”

Patricia’s laugh tinkled in the air with the melancholic ring of a church bell. There was weight in it that Rodrigue did not understand. Life had never been kind to people, however; Rodrigue at least knew this.

Patricia sighed, her mouth turning downward once more, before saying, “I thought you might say something like that… as dutiful as you are.”

“I do mean it,” Rodrigue said, “but I suppose you would be more comfortable sharing what’s on your mind with His Majesty instead.”

“This concerns you, as well,” Patricia said, her fingers feeling up a pale red petal of one of the roses. Compared to them, her cheeks were even paler – and her voice sounded distant, like she was speaking from a place far, far away despite being right in front of him.

There had been more and more days like this with her as of late, some of which Rodrigue had witnessed himself. Days when Patricia appeared to withdraw from the world around her, even from her husband and her stepson.

“I have discussed it with my husband, albeit tentatively,” Patricia continued, “though, as I said… I was not sure how to approach it. He can be quite stubborn at times, that man.”

Rodrigue laughed before he could help himself. The smile stayed on his lips afterwards as he said, voice warm with fondness, “Yes… that he can be.”

He knew it well from their recent arguments regarding the Duscur trip. The memory of them swept the smile away and replaced it with a frown, a subtle furrow between his brows.

If only His Majesty listened to reason at times like this…

Patricia looked at him properly then, her back straight and hands away from the flowers. Instead, she clasped them over her stomach, over the stiff dress suitable for cold end-of-summer days. The pale violet of her eyes appeared dim, but her smile was soft, knowing. “You would know that the best, wouldn’t you, Duke?”

“His elder brother would know better, perhaps.”

“Lord… Rufus of Itha, yes?” Patricia’s lips thinned for one short moment before her expression soothed again. “Even so, you two have been as close as brothers for many a year now, if what my husband says is correct.”

“I would not dare describe His Majesty and I with such familial terms,” Rodrigue said. A slight strain made it into his voice despite the effort to keep it away. “However, he remains a dear friend.”

Patricia’s eyes remained on him, and for a moment only the whistling wind passed through the silence between them. Rodrigue met her scrutiny with raised eyebrows, and she eventually asked, “How dear a friend?”

His eyelids slid down, pulled low by the weight of the question. “Your Majesty,” he began, interrupted by his own sigh. His heart twisted, for he already knew the answer to the question he uttered next. “What is it that you are asking?”

Patricia sighed with him and remained quiet for a moment so long Rodrigue had to open his eyes to check whether she was still there with him. Her mouth had gone tight again but then it opened and words came out, “Your feelings for my husband are different than those of a vassal and a friend.”

It did not come out as a question. Rodrigue had expected that, and yet his chest clenched at the sound of her statement, at the knowing tone. As though caught red-handed sneaking into the kitchens at night, as both his sons had been years ago, Rodrigue glanced aside enough to avoid looking at her face directly. “Your Majesty… Lady Patricia. I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

The lie burned in his throat, but that burn he had grown accustomed to over the years.

Patricia hummed at his response, as light-hearted as she was capable of being during these days. “Forgive me for saying so, but you are almost as terrible a liar as Lambert is.”

The late summer wind stung through Rodrigue’s long coat, and his hands curled behind his back. The burn spread to his face then, unbidden and unneeded. “It is quite uncomfortable to be accused of harboring such feelings for one’s king by said king’s spouse, Your Majesty.”

Patricia’s smile still harbored the same melancholic tinge as usual when Rodrigue looked at it again; then it turned teasing, with her pale lilac eyes flickering as she murmured, “Why, I am not accusing you. I believe I was only stating a fact, Duke Fraldarius.”

“I…” Rodrigue’s tongue formed clumsy words that never came past his lips. He tried again, with his head hung low, “I am no threat to your marriage, I assure you.”

A gentle brush of fingers against his elbow pulled his gaze back up, to see Patricia’s gaze on him be free from accusation and anger. Silent understanding had replaced the melancholia. “I know this. I do not mean to accuse you, or to… chastise you. I understand your situation well.”

Her gaze dipped then, and her finger brushed aside stray strands of brown hair from her face. An aching moment passed before she said quietly, “To want something you cannot have under usual circumstances… I know it all too well.”

“Lady Patricia…” Rodrigue’s hands relaxed behind his back, but his shoulders stiffened further. “Once more, I must ask… what is it you’re trying to tell me?”

Somewhere above them, a bird sang, and Patricia’s gaze flitted toward the sky in search for it while Rodrigue’s remained on the shape of her throat, on the subtle shift of her muscles as she said, “Perhaps you should have a tête-à-tête with him.” When she found nothing on the gray skies, she lowered her gaze back to him. “Lambert would like to have a word with you, in any case. Tonight, if it suits you, Duke.”

Unusual of Lambert to have his wife deliver messages for him, Rodrigue thought. “If His Majesty wills it, naturally…”

“Oh, please,” Patricia said, with a rather unladylike snort on her part. “He is asking for his friend, not his Shield.”

Rodrigue’s lips thinned before curling into a cautious smile. As always, he found himself unable to deny Lambert despite his best efforts – what an exasperating quality, one that he had never been able to snuff out. “Tell him I shall meet him, then.”

Patricia’s hand squeezed at his elbow, gentle and thankful.

Rodrigue wouldn’t think much of this conversation until much, much later when it was already far too late to do anything about it.

* * *

He had been to the king’s chambers plenty of times before, summoned or not. This shouldn’t be any different – and it wouldn’t have been, were it not for Patricia’s gentle questioning of him hours before in the vast castle gardens. That she was so aware of his feelings – that she accepted no denial of them – made his skin tight and heart restless.

Helping Glenn prepare and pack for the Duscur trip and overseeing Felix and Dimitri’s training had calmed him, as they often did, though Glenn had rolled his eyes and said, “I am not a child anymore, father. Stop fretting.”

He had still allowed it, though.

Felix was already mourning the loss of Dimitri’s company, if his behavior at the training grounds had been anything to go by. Felix had always been so quick to sulk when it came to Dimitri’s absence. Thinking of it put a smile on Rodrigue’s lips, made the tension in his chest soften. Nothing was quite as precious as childhood friendships.

And yet when his own childhood friend let him into his private chambers, Rodrigue’s stomach went back to working up knots of worry, similar to the ones he had felt twisting inside himself only the previous day when they had further discussed the diplomatic trip to Duscur.

Though this time he was mostly scared of—

“Rodrigue,” Lambert sighed in relief when he let him in. “I see you received the message.”

“I did.” He stepped over the threshold, ignoring Gustave’s presence by the side of the sturdy entrance. Lambert was quick to dismiss the knight with a wave of his hand and a few short words.

Unnaturally curt of the king. Rodrigue’s shoulders tensed further, but he moved deeper into the room and allowed Lambert to shut the door behind them. The sound of it echoed off the walls, only adding to the growing worry in the pit of Rodrigue’s stomach as he automatically went to the narrow table located in the room, steps only halting to wait for Lambert to sit down first.

“What is this about?” Rodrigue asked, eyebrows raised as Lambert went to move his usual chair from across the table to beside the one Rodrigue stood by now. Only when Lambert had sat down did Rodrigue relax and do the same. “I can only assume it doesn’t concern your travel to Duscur, considering our… recent conversation.”

“As sure as I am that you would like to continue it,” Lambert said with a skewed smile strained over his lips, “I did not invite you here for that, no.” A pause, barely longer than a heartbeat. Lambert’s eyes narrowed, the concerned wrinkle between his brows growing deeper. “Did Patricia not tell you…?”

Rodrigue’s face threatened to flush at the memory of the stroll Patricia had taken him to. Instead, however, he only cleared his throat and cast his gaze down. Demure, compliant. “She... asked me some questions. I do not know whether they are relevant to what you wish to discuss.”

Lambert leaned against the back of his chair with a long, exhausted sigh, fingers tugging at the collar of his royal blue tunic. “I did ask her to be discreet, I suppose.”

“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue started, only to be silenced by a warm hand over his knee and a reproachful stare from his friend. _None of that here,_ it meant, and Rodrigue lowered his head, much like a chastised child. “Lambert,” he corrected himself, and Lambert’s hand squeezed at his knee approvingly. Rodrigue’s eyes remained on it, on the ringed finger that rested so casually on him. “She asked… whether I harbored any unsuitable feelings toward you.”

Firm fingers twitched on Rodrigue’s knee, and he swallowed.

“Is this related to that?”

Lambert’s silence lasted a tad too long, and so Rodrigue’s eyes moved to look at his friend’s face once more, only to see the familiar contemplative expression that Lambert had adopted over the years of his kinghood. Many of his carefree smiles had vanished from that particular look’s way. It had been a strange thing to get used to. It was strange to look at now, too.

“You could say it is,” Lambert said, blue eyes focusing on Rodrigue’s face. Searching something. For a rambunctious and generally good-spirited man, he looked uncharacteristically worried as he considered his words.

He had looked like this before the Sreng campaign, too.

Then, in a far more normal fashion, Lambert blurted out, “Do you?”

Rodrigue’s lips thinned. “Do I what, Lambert?”

Playing the fool had never worked for him quite as well as it had for Lambert, who now sighed and rolled his eyes at him in a manner certain other nobles might call boorish. “Rodrigue. Please. You know well what I mean.”

The hand squeezed at Rodrigue’s knee once more through the breeches, and Rodrigue wished he could pull his gaze away from Lambert’s earnest eyes. If he broke away from it, then he would be able to deny it once more, to shield himself as he had for most of his life.

But – he couldn’t. Not when Lambert looked at him like that, face like an open book of emotions, some that even Rodrigue could not identify.

(Could not dare to identify – if it was just his hopeless imagination again, his heart would –)

“Lambert,” he began, uncertainly. How to confess feelings that spanned well over twenty years? Ones that had never been meant to be put out in the open. “I am… content, being your friend. That has always been enough.”

He had been telling this to himself since the Academy days. “Patricia asked me about it. I told her what I am telling you now – I am no threat to your marriage. I am fond of you, in every sense of the word, but—”

His words cut off as a warm brush of fingers swept over his cheek, blue eyes peering at him more softly, more understandingly. More _happily_. The joy in them caught Rodrigue’s breath, halted his heartbeat for one treacherous moment.

“Both of us,” Lambert said, a smile spread on the lips Rodrigue had thought of far too often as a student and even as an adult with responsibilities, “are such fools.”

“Lambert?”

Lambert’s fingers played with a strand of Rodrigue’s wavy hair, eyes transfixed on it as he murmured, “Patricia saw the way I looked at you before I did. Without her, I would remain a fool.”

_Patricia._

The way she had looked at Rodrigue in the garden… with secrets in her eyes and barely concealed amusement on her lips.

Had she—?

Lambert’s fingers brushed heat over his cheek, and it was terribly, _terribly_ distracting. Almost as distracting as the fond gleam in his eyes as he regarded Rodrigue.

“She was also so very adamant,” Lambert continued, lips twisting with his deep laugh, “when she claimed you felt the same way. I underestimated her, I suppose. I didn’t imagine she’d be right.”

Rodrigue’s face warmed more. He could only hope it didn’t show – he had gotten better at concealing his emotions since the Academy days when he carried feelings in his sleeves like candy, dropping them all over the place with the carelessness of the child he truly had been then. Sometimes he still slipped. Mostly with Lambert, the very man he had wished to keep in the dark about the depths of this feeling.

“Lambert,” he said. The name felt heavy on his lips, and Rodrigue paused to gather himself. The fingers on his cheek moved forward to tuck hair behind his ear. Distracting, so distracting, Rodrigue shouldn’t be focusing on it. The hand on his knee, as well, with warmth seeping through his breeches. He almost wished he still had his long coat on. “I’m afraid I… don’t quite follow.”

Lambert’s words were incomprehensible. Impossible. Rodrigue didn’t know what to make of them. He wasn’t – he didn’t – he was too old for daydreams to sneak upon him like this.

The fingers brushed over his earlobe before they moved down to the back of his burning neck and curled comfortingly, inviting Rodrigue’s attention to Lambert again as though it had ever left the king to begin with.

“You usually catch on much faster than this,” Lambert said, amusement clear as day in his voice. “Then, allow me to show you—”

His fingers moved lower on his neck, pulled him forward, and – Goddess, _how_ was this happening – their noses brushed before Lambert’s head tilted and –

Rodrigue’s hand pushed against the chest of the royal blue tunic, against the gold trim of the Crest of Blaiddyd, halting the king’s movements centimeters from his lips. Confusion spread over Lambert’s expression, and it pained Rodrigue to look at it.

So he didn’t – he shifted his gaze over his king’s shoulder, toward the dimly lit hearth where fire crackled.

“Rodrigue?” Lambert didn’t lean closer, yet his breath still tickled one side of Rodrigue’s face. “Is something the matter?”

Inhale, exhale. Rodrigue fought to calm himself before speaking again. “Lambert… are you… this is all a bit much to take in. Patricia… she’s your—”

 _The second great love of your life,_ Rodrigue wanted to say, but his lips were too numb to form the words.

“You haven’t stuttered like this since the Academy days.” The observation came with a short laugh while Lambert’s thumb rubbed at the side of Rodrigue’s neck, barely brushing over the pulse point. Blue eyes remained attentive, glued to Rodrigue’s. The hint of amusement disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by solemn sincerity. “Patricia is fine with this. She wouldn’t prod at a sleeping bear needlessly, you know.”

Rodrigue’s fingers relaxed then but didn’t retract from the other’s chest. Not until Lambert smiled again. “You are always so thoughtful, my friend. But there is no need to worry, not now.”

When Lambert leaned in again, Rodrigue didn’t push him away – allowed Lambert to pull him forward so their mouths could meet halfway of the remarkably short distance.

Gentle was a word for it. Clumsily loving, as Lambert had always been since youth. But Lambert’s fingers on his neck trembled nervously – and that was new, unexpected. Not that Rodrigue was any better, with his fingers curling into Lambert’s tunic again and his lips out of practice with such intimacy.

And yet, the clumsiness of it all made him smile and lit up a warm joy in him unlike anything which he had experienced since the births of his sons. So, when Lambert began to draw back, Rodrigue’s lips followed just for a short while, chasing the feeling of comfort and reassurance until he too pulled away.

When he opened his eyes again, Lambert was smiling once more, nothing uncertain in his eyes anymore. “Clearly,” he said, a drawling tease in his voice, “you have not been kissed enough in the past few years, my friend. You’re horribly out of practice with it.”

Laughter escaped Rodrigue, heart swelling once more from the impossibility of this moment.

“Forgive me,” he teased back, though it did not come as freely as it had in their youth, “for not having many chances to engage in such behavior. The partner I wished for has been quite taken with someone else these past years.”

“Well,” Lambert hummed, though his smile dimmed just the slightest, “perhaps the three of us ought to have had a talk a long time ago.”

“Perhaps.” Rodrigue leaned in this time. Wary, because this could not be real – heart in his throat, because this _was_ real.

Their lips touched, and Rodrigue sighed through his nose: years of repressed pining caught up to him, and memories of three weddings flickered out from the way of the taste of Lambert’s crooked smile.

It ended as soon as the first one, but Rodrigue didn’t mind it. Every fiber of him was as alight as they were when he’d been but a foolish teenager with a silly, hopeless crush. Watching Lambert’s eyelids pull open in the aftermath of the kiss brought back pleasure he’d thought long forgotten.

“If my eyes aren’t deceiving me,” Rodrigue laughed softly, “I believe you’re blushing, Your Majesty.”

“Rodrigue,” Lambert breathed out with exasperation, “you are not much better off.” Still, his fingers lay gently on his neck, and soon his eyes softened once more, the familiar crinkles visible. “Perhaps we should relocate to a more… appropriate piece of furniture. Or what say you, O’ Shield of Faerghus?”

The resulting snort from Rodrigue was anything but dignified, and his eyes crinkled in return at his dearest friend’s cheekiness. Some things would never change, no matter how many years and hardships came their way. “Oh, Lambert,” he said, entirely too fondly. “How could I say no?”

And get up they did, Lambert’s hand quickly returning to Rodrigue’s neck on their way to the king-sized bed that took up the most space in the chamber. Fingers tangled in dark wavy hair brushed against skin and pulled a smile so soft out of Rodrigue that it felt like they had gone back to the more innocent days of the Officers Academy.

When their lives had been full of sunshine and careless mischief.

By the end of their short walk to the bed – if a few meters could count as that – Lambert was already kissing him again, all clumsiness shed out of the way along with the initial confusion that came from long-time feelings being exposed.

 _Oh_ , Rodrigue thought to himself as his own fingers found Lambert’s cheek, _this is what happiness tastes like._

* * *

At age seventeen, closer to eighteen, Rodrigue’s biggest worries had been his father and his best friend, though for very different reasons. Quite the opposite reasons, actually: Lambert for the (fun) trouble he always pulled him into, and Duke Fraldarius for his overwhelming expectations and criticisms.

At the Academy, however, his father didn’t matter asides from his occasional letters, and so only Lambert remained as his constant worry.

The constant reason for the annoyed looks plastered upon their teachers’ faces.

“You say that,” Lambert snorted at him whenever Rodrigue brought it up, “and yet you join me without another word whenever I suggest anything!”

Rodrigue would only roll his eyes and shake his head in a show of mild displeasure, all the while a smile threatened to break out on his face. “Who’s going to keep you away from trouble otherwise, Lambert?”

Lambert’s arm draped around Rodrigue’s slimmer shoulders. “Not you, certainly,” the future king of Faerghus laughed, and Rodrigue could never quite help himself from laughing along with his friend.

 _I love you¸_ he had thought and felt it as immensely as a young adult could – with certainty that nothing could be sweeter than the nervous fluttering that just seeing Lambert raised in his chest or the way Lambert’s fingers brushed right over the small of his back whenever the prince guided him toward their next mischief.

Back then, it had been a simple thing and yet it had felt like his whole world – even if Lambert didn’t feel the same way, didn’t even know of Rodrigue’s too fast heartbeat. It hadn’t mattered then.

Young love, ever so sweet in its naivety. Blissfully unaware.

* * *

Rodrigue’s back fell onto the mattress only seconds after both of them had wordlessly taken off their boots and put them aside. Lambert followed, with the same ease he had done every mischief imaginable at the Academy, giving a crooked smile before swooping in to kiss him again. As though he had just discovered a new favorite pastime of his. As though the wait for this had been unbearable despite Lambert’s wait had been so considerably shorter than Rodrigue’s.

“When—” Rodrigue managed to mutter against Lambert’s chapped lips, though his words were broken by tangled lips and breaths. “—did she—?”

It was a testament to how well he knew Rodrigue when Lambert murmured, distracted yet thoughtful at the same time, “Sometime during your last visit, I suppose.”

Lips moved down to Rodrigue’s chin and from there to what little skin they could get to on a neck that, for once, wasn’t entirely hiding beneath a high collar. They pulled at skin, and out came soft hiccups of breaths that seemed to please Lambert as he gave a low, contented hum into Rodrigue’s neck.

Such simple ministrations, and yet Rodrigue’s heart burned like he had been starved for them. The heat coiled lower when Lambert’s hands rubbed over his tunic, when firm fingers dug into the fabric to hold him still.

“That was… some weeks ago,” Rodrigue managed, half of his mind focused on the touch on his neck and the other half on his own hands trailing paths up Lambert’s side and back, over the thick gold-trimmed tunic. Even through the fabric, Lambert’s body was firm and imposing, though relative peace of past years had brought out a layer of softness that hadn’t been there during the long months of the Sreng campaign.

 _Good,_ Rodrigue thought, though his memories of the time were admittedly fuzzy at best. That train of thought soon ran off course again when Lambert’s teeth grazed over the juncture between Rodrigue’s neck and shoulder, easing out a full-body shiver in their wake. A finger stretched out the low collar of Rodrigue’s tunic, for easier access, and Rodrigue nudged at Lambert’s head with his own cheek. Warning.

“Careful,” he scolded breathlessly, “I only have a sparse selection of clothes to wear here.”

Laughter reverberated on his skin as soon as he had finished speaking, and Rodrigue’s lips pulled into a smile of their own as Lambert pulled away just enough for his words to be audible. “You may wear my own, should the need arise. Did we not do that in the past?”

Rodrigue’s own laughter choked off when Lambert’s hand slid beneath the hem of the tunic, fingers meeting undershirt before sliding beneath even that. Rodrigue’s own hands climbed up to Lambert’s shoulders, behind his neck, into his hair where he gave his king a good tug until he got Lambert’s head up and their eyes met.

“We were children, then,” he heaved out, painfully aware of the warmth Lambert’s gaze sent across his cheeks. Of the fingers beneath his tunic brushing over a scar near his hip bone. It made his breath hitch, his eyelids droop. “It’s hardly appropriate now.”

Lambert’s smile bordered on a smirk. “Everyone loves good court gossip. Patricia won’t mind.”

“You are not dragging me into your mischief again,” Rodrigue chided, though he choked in the middle at Lambert’s thumb ran over his hipbone very deliberately. “We are not seventeen anymore—”

But that was how he felt, right then, as he pulled Lambert down to his mouth in a kiss that made reason abandon him from a precious moment. 

And Lambert smiled against him, just as content – an impossible dream Rodrigue had thought long lost over the passage of time and three weddings.

They did say reality was stranger than fiction. A reality where Lambert would kiss him as sweetly as he did now – it should have been nothing but a fever dream, born from yearning that refused to die like a stubborn old oak tree whose roots ran too deep.

Perhaps the Goddess saw something worthwhile in him to grant his deepest wish – if so, Rodrigue could only be grateful. For his most selfish prayers came true, many years after first uttering them.

* * *

Ever since Lady Rhea’s encouragement _that_ day, Rodrigue had dutifully attended each Sunday sermon at the cathedral, hands clasped and back straight as he had been taught back home. Lambert had yet to manage to entice him out of these, but not for lack of trying.

He might not be present, but he lingered on Rodrigue’s mind nevertheless even as he tried to listen to Lady Rhea and focus on what she was saying. It ought to not be that difficult, but Lambert always did seem to subvert most expectations Rodrigue had. Usually for the worse, not that Rodrigue minded that much.

Most of the time, he loved it. There was vicious liveliness to Lambert’s antics that pulled Rodrigue in and kept him hooked even as the two of them got scolded by private tutors and Academy teachers alike. Oh, the time they got chided for sneaking into the Goddess Tower unsupervised…

As Lady Rhea fell into silence, Rodrigue – along with the rest of the attendees – closed his eyes and squeezed his entwined fingers as he began his internal prayer that most likely wasn’t important enough for the Goddess’ ears. But a pining boy’s mind would know no rest until he used up all his however weak chances at having his wish happen.

_If you could make Lambert pay me that kind of attention and affection—_

* * *

“How long?” Lambert asked as his hands pushed up Rodrigue’s tunic and undershirt and took the chance to explore the exposed skin. He had pulled back up just enough to be able to study Rodrigue’s face and expressions again, a wrinkle between his brows as though he was working on a mystery. He looked older like that, old pains somewhere too close to the surface, and Rodrigue’s heart stung at the sight.

“How long were you keeping this to yourself?” Lambert clarified after a pregnant pause, his brow smoothing out as suddenly as it had wrinkled in the first place.

“Since before the Academy,” Rodrigue said, clearing his throat in slight embarrassment at Lambert’s stunned expression. He glanced away from those eyes, unable to look at them anymore. “It’s… difficult to pinpoint the exact time.”

But he knew he had spent the entire academic year experiencing every feeling described in those knightly romance novels he had been enthralled by back then. The joys and despair of a teenage crush that would eventually mature into a long-lasting and selfish love masquerading as selflessness.

“All this time,” Lambert breathed out, “and you never told me.”

Rodrigue’s fingers twitched in the mess of blond hair, already far more tousled compared to its usual look. “You were quite busy back then, as I recall. Never the right time to… speak of such things.”

And Lambert had gotten betrothed almost as soon as they had graduated – so the reasons to share his feelings had diminished. He knew the kind of man Lambert was: if he didn’t come to confess himself, with that spark of laughter in his eyes and hands bruised from spear training, then he didn’t feel the way Rodrigue did.

As if to chastise him, Lambert’s nails dug into his side, between ribs.

“I didn’t marry Patricia immediately after…” Lambert’s voice trailed off, and Rodrigue flinched at the vague pain that flickered in the other’s intonation for a quickly passing second. “After—her. You could have…”

“For the goddess’s sake, Lambert,” Rodrigue huffed, burying his fingers deeper into the wild blond hair. He tilted his chin upward to reconnect their eyes, to let Lambert see his frown. “You were _grieving._ ”

The smile was easy, white teeth showing between dry lips, but the blue eyes looked sad as their foreheads came to press against one another. Lambert’s palm slid over Rodrigue’s hipbone, a thumb settling over an old scar. “As were you, my friend.”

“It wasn’t the same.” An odd, aching heartbeat passed before Rodrigue smiled. “Now, are you planning on undressing me tonight, Lambert, or shall I get on with it myself?”

Lambert burst out into a laughter that had both of them shaking, perhaps even the bed itself.

“And people think you have the patience of a saint,” he said between the snorts, right before leaving a lingering kiss on Rodrigue’s cheek.

When he pulled back, the grin had stretched wider – and once more Rodrigue’s heart skipped a beat, as it often had in their younger years. With joy much wilder than what he had felt in a long time – joy undimmed by circumstance, by foolish envy and what-ifs.

“I waited for you this long, Lambert,” he said, returning the grin with his own. His fingers slipped to the neck of Lambert’s tunic and tugged. “I grow weary of it, my king.”

“Then wait you shall no longer,” his king promised, indulgent and relieved in the way he kissed the corner of Rodrigue’s mouth, beside the poorly grown facial hair. Only then did his hands get to work.

* * *

The wedding invitation had been expected. Yet, the sight of it made the 19-year-old Rodrigue feel ill to his stomach as he held the innocuous sheet of paper up and read through it once more, as though the contents would change the fifth time his gaze swept through the maze of letters. They didn’t, of course, and the weight in Rodrigue’s chest only increased amid the joy House Fraldarius wrapped up in at the prospect of a royal wedding.

Rodrigue found himself pensive, a tad gloomy, for the weeks and months preceding the wedding, which in turn meant more arguments with the Duke. It didn’t really matter. His father’s grief over his lack of innate talent for the sword seemed like a small issue compared to the impending wedding that would seal both his and Lambert’s fates.

Lambert’s letter that came with the invitation suggested he didn’t grieve it much – why would he, when he was head over heels for his bride?

At least Lambert wasn’t there to see the strained smile upon Rodrigue’s visage. He’d call him out on it and question him, unintentionally cruel as he always was when it came to matters of Rodrigue’s heart.

Weeks before the wedding, Rodrigue practiced his smile until it gained the desired unstrained look. He practiced the dances, all the while thinking about Lambert’s bride and what he wanted to tell her.

 _He loves you,_ perhaps.

 _I hope you will make each other happy._ Did she love Lambert? Rodrigue couldn’t say he knew the answer to that despite recognizing her name attached to the wedding invitation.

He hoped she did. Lambert – the reckless young man that always pulled him into his shenanigans and never failed to make Rodrigue laugh until his cheeks ached – deserved that.

If he got to be happy, that would be enough, wouldn’t it?

As long as Lambert was happy and doing what his heart thought right… who was Rodrigue to complain?

(It was a beautiful wedding, in the end: the bride and groom at its center, dancing together with the vigor of newlyweds that didn’t see the world surrounding them.

A truly joyous occasion.

The smile on Rodrigue’s face was not as forced as he had imagined it would be.)

* * *

Their tunics and undershirts tossed aside with surprising ease on Lambert’s part and more difficulty on Rodrigue’s, the two resumed their slow-paced exchange of affection. Lambert’s mouth trailed down to the other’s neck while his palm crawled over a rough-edged scar at Rodrigue’s side.

Lambert had given him that. What a volatile Crest.

It wasn’t the worst scar, or the ugliest, but Lambert’s touch had Rodrigue recoiling nevertheless – still he pulled the hand back when Lambert tried to move it away. A thumb pressed into it, and Rodrigue’s eyes fluttered shut as he sighed, the sound of it soft and hiccup-like.

Strange how invigorating Lambert’s touch was, how much joy it brought to a tired heart. How calloused fingers had Rodrigue’s body shuddering with nothing more than a simple brush of skin on skin.

Lambert’s mouth moved lower: down from his neck and shoulder to his collarbones, teeth as present as lips on their travels, and Rodrigue already knew the skin would bruise a particular shade of purple later. Lambert moved lower still, to the canvas of faded scars and burn marks on his chest and abdomen, each kiss reverent and deliberate.

Rodrigue felt light-headed, his blood heated from the sheer tenderness of it all. Desire was a rarely accepted visitor, but he welcomed it now as he ran fingers through Lambert’s hair and pressed his other hand flat against Lambert’s shoulder. Lambert pressed another kiss to the skin of his stomach before blue eyes rose up to meet Rodrigue’s, a crooked, breathless smile upon the lips that so sweetly caressed his skin.

And so Rodrigue found himself pulling at that hair to get Lambert’s face closer to his again, without unnecessary force. His hand trembled through it, and a disbelieving smile came to rest on his own lips just as he tugged Lambert in for another kiss.

He had long since buried his wishes to be anything but a loyal friend to Lambert – and truly, there was nothing to complain about the position, as the friendship was precious and unyielding like steel. Perhaps that silent resignation was why his heart burned so hotly now – the onslaught of old passions too alive to bury under duty and friendship anymore.

It felt similar to waiting for the week with Saint Seiros Day as a child – the joy that came with it because it meant his father would take him to the capital and he’d meet Lambert again. The weeks preceding such an event had made Rodrigue restless despite his best efforts to behave.

Rodrigue could compare this feeling to that – the sense of peaceful joy was the same, and decades-old restlessness felt like it had come to a halt now that Lambert truly looked at him with fuller understanding.

A joy comparable to the births of his sons, yet different still.

When one of Lambert’s hands moved up into his hair, fingers brushing over scalp, a moan tore out of Rodrigue as a low sound that reverberated on Lambert’s lips and had both of them shudder. The kiss broke, but their foreheads connected then as a finger traced the outline of Rodrigue’s ear.

Fire crackled in the background, and over it, their ragged breaths heaved.

“If I had known how it is to kiss you,” Lambert said, out of breath and eyes glistening, “I would have done it ages ago, my friend.”

 _Does your heart soar as high as mine does, as it did in the past when I simply gazed at you,_ Rodrigue wondered but did not dare to give voice to such thoughts. Perhaps in due time, he would tell Lambert everything – share the moments that had crystalized Rodrigue’s realization of being neck-deep in love.

But perhaps this moment was best spent appreciating the present instead.

With a push at Lambert’s shoulder and some clumsier than intended maneuvering, Rodrigue soon found himself on top of his king, staring down at Lambert and the ridiculous trail of blond beard on his jawline. Fondness swelled anew, as did the desire caged within his breeches.

“It matters not,” he said, his heart thumping loud like thunder in his ears. Something inside him melted at the gaze Lambert returned, and it softened his words, too. “I… am overjoyed, to be able to do so now.”

Lambert’s eyes squinted at him. Rodrigue felt as though he could drown in the depths of fondness they showed right then.

When Lambert pulled him down for yet another kiss, Rodrigue didn’t resist, only smiled and closed his eyes and listened to his own heartbeat skyrocket.

* * *

At the wedding, Rodrigue met a woman with a fate similar to his. However, it wasn’t the crown prince her copper brown eyes trailed after – it was the bride dressed in light blue, with wildflowers in her tightly bound hair and a smile rivaling Lambert’s on her apple red lips.

“It’s sad, isn’t it,” she was the one to remark to him without so much as glancing to her side where he stood hands tucked behind his back.

“What is, my lady?”

“To see such happiness and yet feel… disappointed by it.” She still wasn’t looking in his direction, and perhaps he ought to have felt slighted by it. He didn’t. “Though you do a much better job at hiding it than I, my lord.”

The pleasant smile Rodrigue had been wearing – one that wasn’t as unauthentic as one would expect from a man watching the object of his utmost affections marry someone else – threatened to slip off at her words. “Pardon?”

Those copper eyes looked at him then, a thin eyebrow raised high as if challenging him to prove her words wrong. “You’re not quite as subtle as you think you are, that is all.” Her eyes slid back to the newlyweds, and her eyebrow settled back into a frown. “Still better than me, though.”

Rodrigue’s gaze followed hers just as Lambert’s laugh echoed over the string music. His heart constricted for one beat too long, and he released his breath, resigned. “A heartache you’re familiar with is easy to spot on others, I suppose.”

Behind his back and still clasped tightly, his hands shook. A moment passed before he opened his mouth again. “Her and you?”

Her sadness was audible in her words, though carefully restrained: “We were together, before her father arranged the marriage. She was too kind to refuse.”

“Yet cruel enough to leave you?” he murmured, a stab in his own heart as he looked on at the happy couple and the others whirling around them in the rhythmical steps of a waltz.

“Not intentionally cruel.” She shifted beside him then, perhaps to ensure no one was listening to their quietly spoken conversation. “She’s… clumsy – with romance, I mean. She didn’t realize how deep my feelings ran, I suppose.”

Rodrigue’s hum came deep from his throat, closer to a choked laugh than anything else. The ache in his heart was dull, carefully pushed aside, but it existed all the same. “I can relate to that.”

Perhaps that was why he asked the question that, in hindsight, most likely was the one that sealed their fates instead of the proposal that followed many weeks later.

Extending a hand out to her, finally releasing himself from his own deadly grip, he murmured, “Would you care for a dance?”

Her eyes burned with her smile – until the end of her days, she always would smile more with her eyes than her mouth. “Why, I was just about to ask the same.”

* * *

“These really need to leave,” Lambert muttered, hand mindlessly groping at the back of Rodrigue’s clothed thigh. The bed creaked beneath their movements. “You always wear so much.”

“I left my coat in my quarters this time.”

“And I thank Sothis for that,” Lambert said and snorted as his fingers splayed over firm buttocks, trained in hardship over many years of horse-riding. “Too many buttons for all of them to survive.”

“Invoking the goddess’s name for that,” Rodrigue said with a click of his tongue that failed to hide his smile, “could land you in trouble, Your Majesty.”

“Must you?” Lambert sighed, exasperated but fond as his hands wandered to Rodrigue’s waist, fingers brushing beneath a group of faded scars. A thoughtful expression crossed Lambert’s face then, a tad more serious than the situation called for. “Say, Rodrigue. How much do you remember of Sreng?”

Rodrigue grimaced as he pushed himself up and away from Lambert’s hands, gesturing to the breeches when Lambert’s hand moved to reach for him. When the other settled back down, Rodrigue murmured, “Not much, as you know. It all blends together in my mind… but what brought this on, so suddenly?”

Lambert’s gaze shifted, stayed on Rodrigue’s fingers undoing the laces of his pants. When he spoke, his voice went low, something other than contented desire shining through. Rodrigue furrowed his brows at it. “Many of your scars are from that time, that’s all.”

When he reached out a hand this time, Rodrigue didn’t stop him. Only inhaled softly at the press of a thumb over a particularly roughly healed patch of skin.

“They are not any worse than anyone else’s,” Rodrigue reasoned, smiling softly at his oldest friend as his fingers finished with the laces of his breeches and began to tug them down all the while keeping his eyes on the other man. “What troubles you, Lambert?”

“Back then—” Lambert’s brows furrowed further before he sighed. His hand reached out to tug at Rodrigue’s underwear. “No, now is not the time for this conversation. Later, perhaps.”

“Are you certain?” The breeches and underwear off, Rodrigue set off to do the same to Lambert, whose hands returned to the sheets and eyes to Rodrigue’s downturned face.

“I am,” Lambert said, sighing deep from his throat when Rodrigue unbuttoned his pants, fingers lingering on his waist. “It was… a thought that came to mind. But there’s something more important at hand now, wouldn’t you say?”

The teasing edge to his voice had Rodrigue laughing, out of breath and his want so obvious where Lambert’s eyes looked. Rodrigue brushed some of his own hair aside, smiling at the person that had been there for him from near the beginning of their lives. “I will not deny that, no.”

Rodrigue brushed the back of his hand against the swelling crotch of Lambert’s pants; the ensuing sigh that echoed through the silence sent his heart into a new race and his lips into a wider smile.

“To think I still would get to experience something for the first time with you,” he said and pulled the fabric down Lambert’s firm legs with a few tugs of his hands, which had roughed from the many years of battle and the occasional overuse of faith magic.

He could not tell the expression he himself wore, but if the softening of Lambert’s eyes was any indication, it must have been a more honest one than anything he’d allowed himself to show over the past years with him.

“Life’s but an ongoing first experience,” Lambert said, trying to sound serious but his words cracked with chuckles as he pulled Rodrigue down from his neck, his touch as bruising as it always had been.

“Lambert, please,” Rodrigue huffed. “That line never worked for you back in the Academy, did it?”

“Maybe it did. Who knows—”

“Of all people, I think I would.” But Rodrigue was laughing again too, the sound choked with arousal and a joy for life he hadn’t experienced since a long time ago.

* * *

At age 20, Rodrigue was married and his wife was expecting their firstborn child, which pleased his otherwise unpleasable father.

(“The child will be a _true_ Fraldarius,” he said as he made a point of polishing the Sword of Moralta while Rodrigue went through his medical supplies for anything that might ease his wife’s pregnancy pains. He ignored the Duke with a low hum of acknowledgment – it was much easier to take the comment than to begin an argument as he would have done a few years ago.)

He wrote to Lambert about it, naturally, and received warm congratulations that left his heart aching from the futility of his past dreams he had yet to completely cut off and bury. Yet, it was easier with a companion that understood his feelings.

She was in correspondence with the new consort queen of Faerghus, and the dreamy look on her face always revealed when she had received a letter from her dearest friend. Sometimes they both received envelopes with the Blaiddyd seal through the same messenger. Those times they would read together, their free hands loosely tangled with one another as they read and smiled fondly through whatever aches they might be feeling.

People called them a perfect match, like they did the king and the queen. Perhaps it seemed that way: Rodrigue kissed her hand and she kissed his cheek even where others’ eyes followed them, and both smiled afterwards at the affection that in truth wasn’t romantic in nature.

Yet, it was true he had found a home in her – a place of comfort that eased his soul in ways that even religion couldn’t.

He could only hope he offered her at least a bit of that same comfort. He never quite dared to ask, but her smiling eyes said enough.

It was enough, and perhaps that was all Rodrigue could ask out of his life as a Fraldarius.

* * *

Lambert’s chest pressed against Rodrigue’s back after a few moments of shifting limbs and fumbling around on both their parts, his nose nuzzling into the dark hair Rodrigue had possibly spent too much time caring for. The affection was sweet and welcome, though did not distract from the warm hand wrapped around his cock and the thumb that slowly rubbed at the head of it.

Lambert had always been wont to tease. The worst part of Rodrigue wondered if he was like this with his wives, too, but Lambert’s lips on his shoulder soon silenced that horrible curiosity and pulled out a long throaty sigh instead, along with shivers that Lambert must have felt.

“Pleasure suits you,” he murmured into Rodrigue’s ear. “I know you’re eager to deny yourself any, but…”

As if to emphasize his words, Lambert’s hand twisted around Rodrigue’s cock just right to earn another low sound of blissful want and a twitch of hips towards the firm palm.

“Lambert,” Rodrigue choked out, the heat on his neck spreading to his face until his normally pale skin glowed with faint pink. “You are simply… too much.”

Perhaps the scolding tone would come through better if he didn’t sound so utterly breathless as he spoke.

“You enjoy it,” Lambert said, voice matter-of-fact and deep. Rodrigue could not help but sigh and close his eyes to it as he allowed Lambert to keep stroking excruciatingly slowly. His head sunk back, his cheek brushing against Lambert’s.in passing, before lips came to soothe his tensed jaw.

Lambert’s other arm was stuck between Rodrigue’s side and the mattress, but the man didn’t complain as he splayed his hand over Rodrigue’s chest, greedily copping a feel of the muscles that perhaps were not as firm as just a couple years back. One of Rodrigue’s hands rested on top of Lambert’s, fingers between each other and barely touching, while the other hand clutched at the bed sheet, the grip tightening the longer Lambert’s touch on his cock lingered.

“I do,” Rodrigue admitted quietly, huffing when the thumb pressed down on him once more before rubbing in circular motion. Purposeful. Aggravatingly good. Rodrigue had a hard time concentrating on much else, though Lambert’s mouth on his neck was a compelling distraction, too.

An experienced spearman’s hand, it was – and Rodrigue thought, if he ever uttered that aloud, Lambert might make a pun of it. His own mental scenario of it had him wheezing, trembling against Lambert’s chest as though he was still seventeen and his friend had just said something particularly hilarious.

“What amuses you so?” Lambert wondered, smiling as he once more nuzzled against Rodrigue’s cheek and the strands of midnight blue hair. A rough edge emerged to his tone as his arousal pressed further against Rodrigue’s buttocks – whether all of it was on purpose was difficult to say, not that Rodrigue much cared for the answer right then.

“Oh – a… thought occurred to me,” Rodrigue said, the words struggling through a quiet moan as Lambert’s hand worked on his cock like it truly was a spear in the midst of polishing. “A rather… juvenile one, I do not know why—”

“Care to share?” Lambert snorted, leaning and angling his head so his lips brushed against Rodrigue’s cheek. “I do so love your laugh, but I also wish to share it, old friend.”

“It is—rather silly, Lambert—” A gasp as Lambert’s hips thrust against his. A groan when Lambert’s hand squeezed. “—you, you do not play fair, you—”

“We’re well past the point of keeping secrets, Rodrigue,” Lambert said with crackling laughter that sunk right into Rodrigue’s heart, stirring up more joy than any single sound had any right to.

If Rodrigue tilted his head just right – which he did – he would see the fondness simmering in eyes that held the color of early spring skies, the smile settled upon well-kissed lips just right.

A hundred sunrises were no match for that smile, and Rodrigue’s breath staggered, as clumsy as though he still were that hopeless and naïve seventeen-year-old.

Never in his life had he had happiness strike him so suddenly and envelope him so completely like an Aura spell did an enemy. Once more, he realized – _I am not dreaming._

Perhaps his expression revealed his thoughts, as Lambert’s eyes narrowed and melted like ice did at the end of long winter when spring took over. Firm fingers squeezed around his chest, over Rodrigue’s heart, and Lambert murmured, “I’ve got you, as always.”

Rodrigue smiled up at him. The ache in his heart was, for once, a pleasant one. “Should it not be me saying that, Lambert?”

“Let me say it once in a while, too.”

“Ah, you leave me no choice, I suppose.”

A kiss from awkward angles, and two thumping hearts – in the moment, their worlds narrowed only into this moment and each other.

It had been a long time coming, whether they knew it or not.

* * *

Sreng had been – well, hell was one word for it.

Driving the clans to the mountains and beyond was a tough task, that much hadn’t been a surprise to any higher-ranking officer in the Kingdom army. If the clans of Sreng could be driven back _easily,_ Gautiers would have done it with their Lance of Ruin many years back with only some assistance from other noble houses.

Rodrigue’s memories of the time were a messy blur of battlefields and blood and ever-growing numbness spreading up his arms from how much faith magic he forced out with each Fortify he cast over their army and from the wide swings of his lance that felled enemies not quite as efficiently as the arms that wielded Areadbhar.

Battlefield duties aside, he was the army’s head medic for the campaign: when not in battle or in the council tent with His Majesty and the other generals, Rodrigue was busy tending to patients with various injuries, most of which leaned towards the more serious side of bleeding, or relegating other healers to new tasks that needed to be done.

Hectic, as campaigns often were.

No wonder many of his memories of the time blurred together into an indistinguishable mess, from which only single moments without context could be picked up and studied.

But there was one coherent memory that Rodrigue would still recall many years later, perhaps out of the sentimental value his foolish heart had attached to it in the moment it occurred.

He was with Lambert, then, in the king’s private tent, sitting on his knees and his forehead pressed into his king’s shoulders as he drooped forward in a manner very unbefitting of his station. But it had not been him that had put them in this position – Lambert had pulled him in, wrapped his still gauntleted arms around him, and murmured, “Easy there, Rodrigue.”

Rodrigue’s own arms lay limply at his sides. Exhausted from the overuse of white magic, as they had gone through back-to-back battles and come back to their main camp with several wounded soldiers and corpses that had to be buried in what remained a no-man’s land.

But what Rodrigue would remember of this moment was Lambert’s arms around him, the smell of leather Rodrigue’s nose had dug into, and his own much too slow and aching heartbeat.

“You overwork yourself so, old friend,” Lambert sighed against the side of his head, lips brushing over Rodrigue’s temple, though in the moment Rodrigue barely felt the touch. “Is it not time to rest?”

“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue murmured, his own voice foreign to him.

“None of that now.” Lambert’s hands moved to Rodrigue’s shoulders, gently pushing him back until Rodrigue’s head fell from the king’s shoulder. A hand came to life it up by the chin, until Rodrigue’s tired eyes met with Lambert’s a little less tired and plenty more aware gaze. Eyes of the color of the Faerghan lakes studied him, but looking into them sparked no joy in Rodrigue’s heart.

“I’m Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd,” Lambert said slowly, voice low and, in hindsight, terribly concerned. “ _Your_ Lambert. Remember?”

Rodrigue blinked, and the image of Lambert’s face before him blurred as the static in his head buzzed. Even so, something stirred in him, through the exhaustion and numbness, and his lips formed the name that was as familiar to him as his own. “Lambert…”

“That’s right.” Lambert’s face relaxed at that, the furrow between his brows slightly less severe, and a hand went to the back of Rodrigue’s neck. The cold brush of metal had Rodrigue flinch until the softer leather on the king’s palm replaced the feeling. Their forehead pressed together, and Lambert said softly, “I’ve got you, Rodrigue. As always.”

Comfort. Rodrigue wished to sink into it.

His head throbbed, his hands numb and twitchy, but Lambert was there, his sole comfort and guiding star in their shared hell. Rodrigue found it in himself to smile softly, though it barely lifted his lips upwards.

Outside the tent, the winter wind howled, taking Rodrigue’s smile away with it as he pushed away from his king. “I should be making the rounds around the healing tents,” he said when Lambert’s hand held him from rising. “I’ve had a long enough a breather, Lambert.”

“Are you certain? You look rather faint, dear friend.”

“Which a meal will fix. After I make the rounds.” Rodrigue’s headache intensified at the thought, but it didn’t take away the pleasant look he managed to put on for his friend’s sake. “I swear it, Lambert. Take me at my word, won’t you?”

A thumb caressed at the nape of Rodrigue’s neck before it pulled away, Lambert sighing out in defeat. “And then you call me stubborn. But very well, I’ll take you at your word – just remember what I said.” Two pairs of differently shaded blue eyes met, and Lambert’s expression softened. “I’ve always got your back, as you have mine.”

“Yes, I remember,” Rodrigue murmured, rubbing at his tired eyes as he pulled himself up. It felt as though it wasn’t him talking, and yet it was. “As ever, your words mean a great deal, Lambert.”

“Take them seriously, then,” Lambert said with a tired chuckle as Rodrigue bent down to exit the tent. The man later monikered as the Shield only raised his hand in vague acknowledgment of his king before re-entering the cold and windy outside world.

Many of his memories of Sreng had dulled and twisted into a mess, but this one stayed clear in Rodrigue’s mind in later years: a shared moment between two friends, two tired minds, and understanding Rodrigue had never quite received from anyone else. He had never needed to search it from anyone else.

He hadn’t thought he would ever need to.

* * *

Having well-oiled fingers press between his buttocks and drive deeper was, well, a rather odd experience altogether, considering they weren’t his own and one of the only two people he had lain with was his late wife. They hadn’t been exactly adventurous with each other – comfort and ease had taken precedence over what particular wants either of them might have had.

The other person didn’t deserve a mention, for Rodrigue tried very hard to forget him.

This – this was far from that.

But complaining was the furthest thing on Rodrigue’s mind as Lambert’s fingers stretched him with all the dedication Rodrigue had expected from him. The late queen consort had always called Lambert a dedicated lover to her maids – who were oh so wont to gossip, almost as much as the bored stable boys – and the mental image had haunted Rodrigue embarrassingly much.

He had been a younger man then, his imagination less restrained.

“I used to—think about this,” Rodrigue managed to rasp through his own wheezing breaths as Lambert’s fingers brushed over particularly sensitive spots he had been unaware of prior to this moment. He didn’t know whether he sounded as foolishly adoring as he did to his own ears, but it didn’t matter now that there truly wasn’t any need to hold back. “About—oh, Goddess—you and—”

He couldn’t help the choked laugh that came next – remembering the follies of youth and the awkwardness that came with it.

“How hopeless I was for you, back then,” he sighed, entirely too fond and just as hopeless as he accused of his younger self of having been. Lambert’s fingers curled just _so_ then, and Rodrigue’s eyes fluttered shut as his toes curled and a breathy groan escaped him.

“You’re not now?” Lambert snorted, rather breathless himself. A kiss to Rodrigue’s earlobe, and then, a more genuine question masked poorly as a joke: “Whatever should I do to fix my error of not realizing sooner?”

“This is – a rather good start, I would say…”

Three fingers ventured deeper, patient and thorough in ways Rodrigue knew Lambert to be perfectly capable of despite their many thoughtless plans in their early youths. If only Lambert could shed that lasting trace of recklessness, then Rodrigue would not worry so much—

“You could stand to be a little more selfish with me, you know.” Teeth worried at his earlobe, unmindful of the dark strands of hair. Rodrigue had half the mind to bury his face into the soft blankets but didn’t as Lambert continued, “I always thought you were holding yourself back, but…”

“I… have been selfish enough.” Rodrigue closed his eyes, curling his fingers around the blanket beneath them to have another sensation to distract himself with besides Lambert’s voice and rhythmically moving fingers. His breath hitched when said fingers pushed in harder, the friction close enough to being satisfying. “Being at your side…as I have… has not been a cause of sorrow for me, Lambert.”

Yearning, always, but the friendship was worth more than the futile daydreams of a man whose heart hadn’t given up on the unachievable. “But if you insist,” Rodrigue continued, eyelashes fluttering as he choked on a sigh, “I wish for more than your fingers, friend.”

“See, if you weren’t honest just now, I would have kept this going for longer,” Lambert teased, a rough chuckle making his chest tremble against Rodrigue’s back. “But since you’re asking for it…”

Before Rodrigue could kindly retort for Lambert to _get on with it_ , his friend had already pulled the fingers out and gone back to retrieve the bottle of oil on the nightstand to cover himself with the lubricant once more. Rodrigue was just about to turn on his stomach when Lambert’s hand halted him.

“I would like to see your face,” he said, all sincere and the type of romantic Rodrigue had always known him to be.

Well, Rodrigue was much the same himself – no reason for the kettle to call the pan black now.

So he reached his hands out to pull Lambert down for a kiss after settling comfortably on his back and spreading his legs in a manner that would have made his seventeen/eighteen-year-old self horribly self-conscious despite the fantasies he had indulged in. But the many years between then and the current moment had shaved off many things – and while he wouldn’t have reached this moment without prodding from Patricia, he felt emboldened to profess his feelings, reveal himself to his king in ways that he hadn’t dared before.

The kiss only broke when Lambert began pushing into him. Calloused hands gripped at Rodrigue’s thighs to steady them both, while Rodrigue’s remained on Lambert’s cheeks; the beard tickling his palms; their short, uneven breaths mingling as Lambert went on. Rodrigue kept his eyes open through it, jaw clenched tight through the initial intrusion, and Lambert looked right back at him, the connection never breaking as Lambert’s cock inched in slowly.

Rodrigue hadn’t indulged himself in futile fantasies where this happened in a long time now, but he remembered them well enough that his first thought was, _doesn’t quite feel as I imagined_ as he shifted his legs and Lambert’s hold over them moved with him. If Rodrigue let his thoughts wander, he would even say it was similar to how it had been back then with—

Yet it was also better than he could have imagined: his thoughts never did Lambert’s gaze justice, the way it burned into Rodrigue’s and kept him grounded and locked into the moment, nor did they judge Lambert’s bruising hold accurately.

About halfway into it, Rodrigue winced and blinked, and Lambert’s forehead pressed soothingly against his. “Everything all right?”

A useless question, really, as the answer should have been obvious. Yet, Rodrigue gave a strained smile anyway and said, “I’ve felt worse.”

Lambert’s lips twitched, the concentrated frown between his brows easing the slightest bit. “Under… very different circumstances, I’d wager.”

Rodrigue’s laugh came out as a strangled cough when Lambert pushed further, and he moved his hands to Lambert’s shoulders then. “You’re… not wrong. But this is… fine, you may…”

A moan cut off his words as soon as Lambert was fully in – and Rodrigue’s head lolled back, eyelids fluttering shut as the near foreign sensation filled his senses, the sting of it clenching his jaw and curling his fingers in the skin of Lambert’s shoulders. Lambert’s ragged breath fanned heat across Rodrigue’s face, as though it wasn’t warm enough already – warmer than any summer day in Fhirdiad.

A hand rubbed at a tensed back of a thigh, soothing, distracting. Rodrigue managed to breathe out a slow exhale, relaxing minimally beneath the man that gave meaning to his life, a _reason_ for nearly every decision he had made thus far.

When Rodrigue’s eyes opened again, Lambert was looking at him, eyes crinkled from the strain of staying still when he clearly desired to move. Rodrigue’s hand moved to his friend’s – his king’s – cheek, thumb trembling as it caressed the sweaty skin, and Lambert’s expression shifted and softened into adoration as he tilted his head just to kiss Rodrigue’s palm.

Oh, how Rodrigue’s age-old dreams _paled_ in comparison to the current reality.

Rodrigue’s own face relaxed, and he nodded wordlessly before pulling Lambert down for a kiss. He got the hint and lifted his hips high, which pulled a sigh out of Rodrigue, and slid back in.

Both of them groaned at the feeling as Lambert’s forehead fell upon Rodrigue’s once more. The kiss might have broken, but their bodies and breaths remained tangled together just like their lives always had. Where one began and the other ended, they had never been able to tell precisely.

Lambert settled for slow and steady and _romantic_ , his lips forming sweet nothings that had never been for Rodrigue’s ears until that night. No wonder he had gotten away with so much back at the Academy, no wonder both his wives had loved him so dearly.

(Though Patricia seemed more and more melancholic lately whenever Rodrigue saw her, he could not connect that to any marital troubles. He could not imagine such. He would be more likely to connect Patricia’s mood to Cornelia, her closest confidante, but Rodrigue held his doubt in. Suspecting a friend was never pleasant, no matter how… strange a friend became.)

Rodrigue’s chest ached from his heart beating into it, and he could not help his words, choked and faint from pleasure as he was. “I fear I might die if you keep—that up, Lambert.”

“What?” Lambert was smiling again – grinning like a dastard, really, and Rodrigue still couldn’t fathom how his friend could find such similar joy as he did in this. It should have been impossible, and yet there they were in the midst of what a younger Rodrigue would only have called _making love_.

Lambert’s head dipped low as he kissed Rodrigue’s neck before murmuring against a racing pulse, “Weren’t you going to allow me to make up for the many years of foolishness?”

The well-timed thrust had Rodrigue gasping instead of answering, had his hand move behind Lambert’s neck and fingers curl into strands of blond hair. The strong hands on his thighs pulled him up, pushed Lambert in deeper, and Rodrigue suddenly found it difficult to gather his scattered his thoughts.

“Lambert,” he sighed instead, as he had done many times in his life – but perhaps now Lambert understood the thick layer of fondness that surrounded it, fondness that came from many years of shared friendship and hardship.

“I know,” Lambert said, voice low and soft, and for once Rodrigue was truly sure that he did.

* * *

One would have thought that the Goddess Tower would be just as crowded as the reception hall turned ballroom, but no, it was even emptier than stables were at this time of night. Most likely because of the long walk it took to get there. Even being in a good shape, after a few dances and a walk to the Tower, Rodrigue’s legs _ached_ as they did after a ride.

He had left Rufus behind, and tried very hard to not think about either of the Blaiddyds as he reached the Tower.

The few flutes of champagne he had in him didn’t help with that, either, and so Rodrigue sat down on the stair steps in front of the Tower’s door and inhaled the cold air typical of late Ethereal Moon. The chill felt relieving against the sweaty, overheated skin, and he almost sighed aloud from the relief.

Goodness, it was something he ought to get used to, but watching Lambert whirl around the dancefloor with so, so many girls from all three houses tired him to the bone. While he had danced his own fair share, it was nothing compared to his friend. Though, Rodrigue thought, it hadn’t been Lambert who had had to deal with Rufus. They both had their burdens and – in Rodrigue’s case – mistakes.

Rodrigue had whisked down a flute in one go before leaving the hall with his hair sweaty and clinging to the back of his neck, laughter vivid in his ears even as – after some… delay – he made his way to the cathedral and to the bridge connecting to the Tower.

Perhaps the alcohol (or, he supposed reluctantly, Rufus) had got to his head a little bit, as his mind still spun with useless thoughts.

He only stood up from the spot when the ominous sounds of approaching footsteps reached his ears. He worried it might have been Rufus despite having told him to leave him be, but just when he was about to retreat further, a familiar voice stepped to the bridge and an even more familiar was rang out, “I thought I might find you here!”

Rodrigue’s head spun again, but he managed a faint smile as Lambert approached him, going so far as to take a few steps forward himself out of habit. “Aren’t you supposed to be dancing?”

“Aren’t _you_?” Lambert laughed, his steps unfaltering and his smile unmistakable. “I saw you run off somewhere, so I followed to make sure you weren’t being sick in some bush.”

Not so fast as to have seen what Rodrigue had been up to previously, apparently.

He didn’t have anyone hanging off from his arm as Rodrigue had suspected – but then again, Lambert wasn’t the skirt chaser of his family.

He turned heads just by being himself.

Which was why Rodrigue found himself staring once more, at the slicked back hair and the easy smile on his friend’s face and the tightly fitted uniform that Rodrigue had thought of taking off a little too often lately. Said thoughts began to stir once more, dredging up a familiar fantasy from one of the more romantic knight novels Rodrigue had found in the castle library back in Fraldarius—

Rodrigue turned away from Lambert and lifted his eyes toward the starry skies instead, not quite unable to cover the shiver that ran through him. “I can handle my drink just fine, Lambert.”

He didn’t mean to snap, but his tone made him wince regardless.

Lambert, though, only laughed as he settled by Rodrigue’s side, his heat pressing into Rodrigue without any physical contact. “You sure? The time we sneaked some wine into the dorms says otherwise.”

“Must you remind me?” Rodrigue sighed, lips pressing thin afterwards. His eyes stayed on the twinkling stars, but it was growing steadily more difficult to ignore the urge to turn towards his friend and drown in the sight of him once more. He felt off-balance, even though he stood on both of his feet and wasn’t drunk.

Perhaps a _bit_ tipsy. And guilty.

Lambert’s shoulder brushed against his at that. “You seem pretty wound up.”

Rodrigue didn’t move away from the contact. “Do I?” he only asked vaguely. His eyes followed the outlines of distant stars on a clear sky, his heartbeats too loud in his chest. “I don’t feel—”

“Don’t pretend with me.” Lambert’s voice cooled to the temperature of the brisk wind around them, and Rodrigue winced despite himself. He gave in and dared to look to his side, meeting Lambert’s surprisingly level stare and a mouth pressed into a line matching Rodrigue’s. Said line eased when their gazes locked, softening into a smile. “We’re friends, after all.”

Rodrigue’s shoulders slump against his will, and it was his turn to brush his arm against Lambert’s. “Right,” he said, with a demure smile this time. “Of course we are.”

“Got sick of dancing, did you?” Lambert questioned without much preamble now that the previous tension was dealt with, his hand subtly moving to the small of Rodrigue’s back to rest there. The heat of the touch sept through the fabric, and Rodrigue found himself distracted once more. Lambert’s voice relaxed, as though he had got his answer: “Me too. It’s way trickier than lance practice, I dare say.”

Rodrigue huffed out a laugh, head tilting forward and dark hair cascading down to the side of his face from his half-undone ponytail. “I find that hard to believe from you, Lambert.”

They fell into silence then. Lambert’s hand remained on Rodrigue’s back, and their shoulders stayed glued together while Rodrigue stared down at the forming fog below the bridge.

“Shall we?” Lambert asked after a few long moments passed.

“Hm?”

“Go into the Tower. I’m sure it would be better than standing around here.”

“The door’s locked, isn’t it—?”

“No, I overheard the guards grumbling about it earlier. The lock’s been broken for a while.” Lambert’s grin was contagious, and so very audible in his voice. “Not too hard to break in, wouldn’t you say?”

Rodrigue’s smile felt much more genuine now. “And then you’re surprised when Rufus calls you a troublemaker—”

“I am _not_ the one sneaking back into the dormitory well past midnight.”

Rodrigue snorted, tilted his head to get a look at Lambert. “Right.”

“Come with me, won’t you? It’s better than just standing here and waiting for people to catch us.”

Not that anyone really would, since the guards were lax around the celebrations for the foundation of the monastery – which was a chance for the students to get up to no good, and which in turn gave way to urban legends of many risky encounters at the Goddess Tower or otherwise.

Rodrigue flushed just thinking about the rumors that might follow this one—

“Sure,” he said easily, his hastening heartbeat refusing to show in his even-toned voice even as he leaned into Lambert’s direction. “I’d follow you anywhere, Lambert.”

He could not even blame it on the alcohol, when he said things like this on daily basis out of sheer exasperated fondness for the other. It was also why he didn’t brush Lambert’s arm off when it draped around his shoulders and pulled him close as if he were a co-conspirator in a scheme.

He might as well have been, Rodrigue thought much too fondly and with his cheeks aflame under the chilly night sky.

* * *

It wasn’t often that Rodrigue gave himself up for pleasure other than the contentment that came with being by Lambert’s side and watching their children grow.

(Glenn, already a knight since fifteen, in the Royal Guard no less – Rodrigue could not be prouder.)

It had been a long while before that night, and so Rodrigue found himself unused to how _immense_ the want burning in him was – so much of it buried under layers and layers of oaths and duty, in the warmth of friendship and support. To have permission to express such emotion and desire – it was privilege Rodrigue had assumed he’d never have.

He had been resigned to it, even, so the current situation was a bit…

 _Overwhelming_ was a suitable word for it. The rhythm remained steady, _slow_ , and yet Rodrigue’s mind was swimming in incoherency, only able to grasp the sensations of Lambert moving deep in him and strong fingers pressing into his thighs with bruising force. He himself ached between legs Lambert held up, the head of his erection damp and warm even without any encouraging touch from either of them.

He had no will to let go of Lambert’s shoulders to touch himself, not when Lambert’s mouth was sweet on his, kissing and nipping and being so very distracting as Lambert always had been. The scratch of his beard on Rodrigue’s chin only pulled out choked snorts of laughter, at which Lambert himself laughed too.

“I don’t remember you laughing so much since our teen years,” he murmured between one kiss and another, licking his lips clean as he cast a half-lidded stare on Rodrigue. “I have missed the sound of it at times, I must admit.”

The rougher than usual voice wasn’t bad, Rodrigue thought absently, a little delirious as he brought a hand to sweep some hair behind Lambert’s ear. Still half-laughing, he said, “I haven’t been unhappy, if that is your worry, Lambert. Though, right now… I suppose I am happier than I have… ah, been able to be…”

The drag of Lambert’s cock inside him had Rodrigue’s usually even voice crack and sentences crumble before they could fully come out, but Lambert only smiled indulgently at it. So Rodrigue gave up on trying to have any control over his thoughts and mouth – gave himself up and relished in the feeling of being pressed further into the mattress beneath Lambert’s body weight.

“My apologies,” Lambert murmured just before lifting his legs higher and pushing in from a new angle, “for keeping you waiting.”

Rodrigue’s mouth crooked into a wide smile of his own as he heaved out in broken pieces, “Worth… every moment of it, I assure you.”

The usual response whenever inquired about his possible regrets – sacrifices made over the years in the name of loyalty and duty – and more than ever, Rodrigue meant it.

From the beginning, all those years ago in the very same castle as they were now, Lambert had been his destiny, one handed to him by the Goddess herself.

Rodrigue wouldn’t give it up for anything.

* * *

The Goddess Tower itself didn’t offer much warmth, and it hid the stars from view with its intricately decorated ceiling, but somehow Rodrigue still felt less chilly than moments ago on the bridge.

The reason for that was as obvious as ever, but thinking of it right then would be inviting in more distracting thoughts that Rodrigue might accidentally end up blathering out. Not that he ever had so far – keeping a straight face around his father had been good practice for dancing around his feelings for Lambert.

Lambert’s arm pulled him closer when Rodrigue slowed, and Rodrigue’s head bumped painfully against his friend’s. Both groaned, Lambert significantly louder, but he was quick to swipe hair from Rodrigue’s face in apology.

Far too intimate a touch for Rodrigue to handle, but he didn’t withdraw when Lambert’s fingers lingered around his earlobe just a tad too long.

“I’m sorry,” Lambert said, and Rodrigue wondered what for.

Then, his head throbbed.

Right.

“I’ve had worse,” Rodrigue said as he brushed Lambert’s hand away with his own, fingers tentatively feeling up where his head had connected with his friend’s. He grimaced at the sharper flash of pain, but soon smiled when Lambert eyed him skeptically. “Please, you know it as well as I do.”

He reached for Lambert’s head next, fingers alight with faith magic even before he made contact with Lambert’s hair. He tried to ignore the deep sigh from his friend and the way his head leaned into the touch as though he were a contented cat.

It was only because faith magic felt _pleasant_ as long as it didn’t treat severe injuries and broken bones; Rodrigue would describe the feeling of it as the warmth of sunlight on skin and sparkling spring water on parched lips.

Rodrigue pulled his fingers away only reluctantly, studying Lambert’s expression all the while. “How is that?”

“Better,” Lambert said, his own fingers over where Rodrigue’s had just been. A somewhat awed expression fell on his face, and he continued, “It really is amazing what you can do, Rodrigue.”

If only his father thought that way too, Rodrigue mused before shoving that thought off into the far corners of his mind. His head hurt enough even without the mental image of his father hovering over his shoulders and scowling at his choice of studies.

“If only it’d work for you too,” Lambert added as his hand returned to Rodrigue’s head to reinspect the scene of the incident. “It’s rather absurd it doesn’t.”

“Redirecting the flow of magic in yourself takes effort,” Rodrigue murmured, eyes half-lidded, “and more practice than what I’ve had to get the grasp of it, even with your _many_ accidents.”

At the end of it, he shot Lambert a narrow-eyed stare, his lips pressed thin. Lambert raised his hands defensively, removing the one from Rodrigue’s hair. “Not _that_ many,” he insisted. “A few bruises here and there aren’t much.”

“Lambert…”

“With you protecting me, how could anything bad ever happen to me?” Lambert asked, and though it was just a jest, Rodrigue’s chest swelled with emotion until he had to look away toward the dark corners of the Tower.

“I can’t _always_ be there for you,” he said with a heavy, regretful heart.

Lambert came close again, and Rodrigue found an arm around his shoulders before he could move. When he spoke Lambert still sounded light-hearted, but Rodrigue caught onto the undertone of mild concern. “Breaking your promise so soon? I thought you were more stubborn than that.”

Ah, how Rodrigue hated disappointing his friend.

“I am… not,” he said, grimacing. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

“Perhaps I ought to snatch you to the capital with me, then,” Lambert suggested airily, nose pressing into Rodrigue’s hair so casually that Rodrigue almost failed to notice it. “Make you keep your promise that way.”

Beneath the many layers of confidence, Lambert’s voice cracked with a rare insecurity, and Rodrigue’s heart broke at it.

“No need to be so rash,” Rodrigue said, smiling, brushing his hand against Lambert’s back to soothe those worries. The words echoed off the Tower’s walls around them, and Rodrigue found his cheeks heated once more. Still, he pressed on, driven by fondness that he knew was unreciprocated, “Anything you ask of me, I shall strive to accomplish.”

Instinctively, he moved to bow, but Lambert’s arm around his shoulder kept him from doing so. “So formal,” Lambert teased, but the relief was unmistakable as he continued, with a firm squeeze on Rodrigue’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

A promise made at the Goddess Tower was said to have a way of coming true.

Rodrigue would do all he could to make it so.

* * *

When he came, it was with a faint whisper of Lambert’s name upon his lips and a heart set on an impossible race against itself, faster than it even got during an adrenaline spike in the middle of a hunt. His eyes shut as he shivered through the climax, at the feeling of release he hadn’t, in truth, experienced in a while.

And when he last had, it hadn’t been this good – only his own hand and thoughts that never quite matched reality. Better than the alternative option he had, but…

Lambert slowed down for him then, for a chance to let Rodrigue catch his breathe a little and for a chance to kiss him sweetly once more. A few more thrusts and a few moments later, Lambert had come too, grunting Rodrigue’s name in such an indecent tone that Rodrigue knew not how he would ever forget the sound of it, even if this were the last time he heard it.

Goddess, how he hoped to hear it again.

They ended up lying on their sides, face-to-face, after Lambert pulled out and the sensation of seed sliding down his buttocks distracted Rodrigue for a passing moment before Lambert’s hand on his cheek pulled his attention away, toward the pair of sex-worn eyes.

Now that the hand no longer stayed on his thigh, Rodrigue could briefly lament the oncoming soreness the bruises would inflict, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t have ointments for that.

“Well, I can say I haven’t seen you this relaxed in a long while,” Lambert said, words rumbling pleasantly from his chest. Rodrigue could not stop himself from smiling fondly through the comfortable exhaustion.

“I haven’t been,” he admitted, admiring the feeling of warm fingers tucking dark hair behind his ear for him. His own reached out until they rested against Lambert’s pulse point, where a steady heartbeat greeted his touch. A reminder that this was real and true, not a desperate man’s mind coming up with delusions. In a tone that didn’t quite get to reproachful, he murmured, “Because certain someone makes reckless decisions behind my back.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Lambert questioned but not without a smile. His thumb rubbed carefully over Rodrigue’s ear, over midnight hair. “It isn’t recklessness as much it is a show of good faith, wouldn’t you say so?”

“I remember our Academy days, Lambert.”

“ _You’re_ one to talk about recklessness. When you first used Fortify in battle, you nearly knocked yourself out—”

“I was not the one running to the front lines—”

“—and who was it that carried you back to the monastery, Rodrigue?”

Rodrigue huffed out a laugh, and soon they were both chuckling at the foolishness of their shared youth and the memories that still filled Rodrigue up with unspeakable joy.

“Those were,” Rodrigue breathed out before he could help himself, fingers reflexively curling against Lambert’s neck, “the best months of my life.”

“I always did wonder why you refused to marry again,” Lambert said, eyes crinkling with a barely suppressed smile. “I see why you did, now.”

Rodrigue’s smile widened, more unrestrained than it had ever been since the Academy, and he leaned in to indulge himself with another taste of his lifelong friend’s lips. “I am glad that you do, Lambert.”

There, lying face-to-face with Lambert in the royal bed with the deep blue sheets, Rodrigue found peace unlike anything he had ever known. All his nerves had settled and worries were cast aside as only the warm, all-encompassing feeling of reciprocated love filled him, _tingled_ through him like the most pleasant of wines.

It was marvelous, to put it simply.

For a while, no other sound other than the fire crackling in the hearth and their slow post-coitus kisses could be heard. And while Rodrigue would have wished to indulge in a while longer, he knew he mustn’t get too carried away.

“We both need—a bath,” he said against Lambert’s mouth, a rather dreamy sigh of a sound. “You have long days of traveling ahead, after all.”

Lambert hummed his agreement, but his hand remained tangled in Rodrigue’s hair for a while longer, his lips insistent on kissing Rodrigue breathless once more.

“Glad to hear you’ll be joining me,” Lambert muttered with the kind of smile that would usually send warning bells ringing through Rodrigue’s head. Now it only encouraged the warm, fond feeling that Rodrigue knew to be love in its purest, most painful form.

“Naturally,” Rodrigue said, and went so far as to poke his nose against Lambert’s. Jokingly, but still with the air of utmost seriousness, he said, “I’d follow you wherever.”

It still took ten more minutes of basking in each other’s warmth before they managed to get up and move toward the private washrooms for the aforementioned bath.

* * *

Much, much later Rodrigue found himself being tugged to the king’s bed yet again, despite his own mild and weak-hearted protests.

“I do not think this was what Patricia consented to—”

“You think she would consent to us sleeping together but not to _actually_ sleeping together?” Lambert looked at him with amusement as he straightened his nightshirt by the neckline with one hand while the other held onto Rodrigue’s wrist. A thumb pressed over Rodrigue’s steady pulse, which picked up at the touch.

Lambert continued, “And if you are concerned with sneaking out of here… I am sure you recall the secret passageways? One leads right to your chambers.”

Now that he mentioned it… a childhood memory tugged at Rodrigue’s mind, and he blinked. “That’s true. I had nearly forgotten about that.”

“Stay the night,” Lambert said, emphatically as he rubbed at Rodrigue’s wrist. “Perhaps it’ll ease your separation anxiety.”

His words joked, but the look in his eyes was sincere, earnest, just as Rodrigue had always known him to be.

Saying no to that face had never gotten any easier.

And so he stayed – falling asleep, for the first time since childhood and teen years, by Lambert’s side in the fading warmth radiating from the dying fires in the hearth.

If only this moment could last forever, Rodrigue mused to himself as he slowly fell asleep beside the person he’d been following for most of his life.

* * *

The morning after found him in the castle barracks, watching over his eldest son as he finished packing up for the trip to Duscur. A slight smile lingered on his lips as Glenn huffed and closed the flaps of his bags.

“Medical supplies?” Rodrigue inquired, not for the first time.

“All there, father.” Glenn made a point of it to turn to him and roll his eyes. “I am not a child anymore. Of course I packed them first.”

“As you say,” Rodrigue hummed agreeably and shifted on his legs. The previous night’s activity had caught up with him, leaving behind numerous aches he would rather not let show. “Perhaps we ought to go through first aid once more.”

Glenn sighed, and even that sounded sharp. He did so hate being fussed over, especially when there was a chance of a fellow knight chancing upon the scene. “I haven’t forgotten since the last time you showed me and Felix. There is no need for such, father.”

That familiar tone of confidence – though at times it bordered a bit too close on _over_ confidence for Rodrigue’s liking – had Rodrigue’s shoulders finally relax and drop, his hands raised in surrender. “I’ll take your word for it, Glenn.”

Glenn’s lips rose into a small smile. “About time.”

On their way out of the barracks, Rodrigue gave Glenn’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Take care of them out there, you hear me?”

His voice went low and was nearly lost beneath the chatter from the other knights that were to accompany the king and his entourage, but Glenn clearly caught it as he scoffed. “I’m no longer such a newbie that you should have to worry about me doing my job. I’ll keep them safe, His Majesty and all.”

Then, under his breath, “If that man even needs any protection.”

Rodrigue could not help the snort of a laugh that escaped him at that, although it gained some attention from the knights around them. It wasn’t often that Duke Fraldarius laughed like that.

“Oh, son,” he said, fondly and without any idea of the future heartache, “you would be surprised.”

* * *

Felix was already busy pretending that he wasn’t damn near crying at the loss of Dimitri’s company, while the crown prince smiled awkwardly and tried to soothe his friend with promises of souvenirs and letters. Rodrigue cast the sight a slight smile before turning his attention to the King of Faerghus himself, who was donned in royal blues and Blaiddyd armor and made so very distracting a sight.

“You are really taking His Highness with you, then,” Rodrigue said, despite many other far more different words lingering on his lips. Acknowledgments of the previous night as well as three precious words Rodrigue hadn’t really gotten to say much. But the time wasn’t right for them, and so Rodrigue held them back, focusing instead on the obvious.

Lambert’s lips curled into a somewhat sheepish smile. “Yes, well. Dimitri wished to go.”

“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue began, voice strained with not so old concern, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“How intimidating,” Lambert teased, but the smile faded off into seriousness as he patted Rodrigue’s elbow. “It will be fine. I swear, old friend.” The smile came back as his voice went lower, his head tilting closer to avoid the words being overheard, “I really ought to start calling you something else, don’t I?”

The very concept of endearing pet names from Lambert sent such a hot wave across his face that for one embarrassingly long moment it truly felt like he was seventeen and trying to fumble his way through a confession. Many years of practice kept his expression straight, and he managed, “Lambert, by the Goddess, don’t change the topic.”

“What do you wish me to say? I am certain everything will go well, despite your concerns.” Lambert’s gaze moved to a pair of women in the courtyard, a little farther away from the children. A frown emerged as a wrinkle between his brows. “Besides, his company might ease whatever it is Patricia’s so worried about now.”

Rodrigue’s gaze followed Lambert’s until it found the reserved queen consort with one of the court mages – Cornelia, with whom Rodrigue had exchanged a fair share of conversations. She held Patricia’s hand between her own, a delighted glow to her face, but Rodrigue’s attention shifted to Patricia, who wore a more subdued expression and stood stiffly in comparison to Cornelia’s much more relaxed stance.

“…Indeed,” Rodrigue said, his own brow furrowing in concern. “Perhaps she is bothered by—”

“No, no,” Lambert said, and shook his head firmly when Rodrigue’s attention returned to him. “It is not about… the arrangement, if we’re calling it that. It’s something different.”

“If you are certain,” Rodrigue allowed, though uncertainty clouded his tone. Then he shook his head himself as he became at once aware of their surroundings: their sons, the knights, the bustle in the courtyard, the cold sun hidden behind the clouds in the sky. Rufus on the sidelines of it all, dressed warmly, and staring in Rodrigue and Lambert’s direction. The carriages creaked, horses shifted restlessly. It was almost time.

With a bow that was significantly hindered by the hand pressed against his elbow, Rodrigue murmured, “Good luck on your trip, Your Majesty. Travel safely.”

“I will try, for your peace of mind,” Lambert said, great humor in his voice as he squeezed Rodrigue’s elbow once more. “Besides… I have a great reason to try my very best to return, don’t I? I owe much to you, after all.”

Rodrigue sighed but could not help smiling at the words. His heart had yet to cease singing from the previous night, and only the persistent aches convinced him that it was truly _real_. Though Lambert’s gaze did a good job at that, too. “Mind the public place, Your Majesty… but yes, I’ll be looking forward to whatever it is you’re planning.”

“I’ll send for you when I return,” Lambert promised, with a familiar twinkle in his eyes that not even the long years of kinghood had managed to snuff out completely. “Wait for me once more, won’t you?”

 _For you_ , Rodrigue thought as he watched the king, his wife, and the crown prince all gather and climb into the carriages: Dimitri with his father, Patricia into her own separate carriage with two of her attendants. He watched his eldest son press his heels against his mount’s sides, noted the glinting scabbard of the sword he had received two years prior, and he smiled through an odd, overwhelming sensation as his hand found Felix’s shoulder.

_For you, I would wait a thousand years and not complain once._

* * *

Lambert was right: he did return from Duscur.

As a corpse.


	2. painted ashes, painted snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And our fading light is at its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: uhhhhh, brief description and handling of a beheaded corpse, grief, briefly described panic attacks. LOTS of death. illnesses (plague) vaguely described. bad-spirited talk of people of duscur

When the word reached Castle Fraldarius, all Rodrigue could do was stare at the messenger who had delivered the news in hushed, breathless words that suggested she had not gone easy on herself or her mount on the way from Fhirdiad. Her hair was Blaiddyd blond in color, but her eyes were brown.

“Could you repeat that, once more?” Rodrigue found himself asking through a haze of incomprehension.

“Milord,” the messenger said, just as out of breath as mere moments ago, “His Royal Majesty, King Lambert of House Blaiddyd, has been murdered in Duscur.”

Just like that, the world ceased to make sense.

* * *

“I’m coming, too,” Felix’s voice announced as Rodrigue was giving a stable boy orders to prepare his mount.

“Felix,” Rodrigue started, glancing over his shoulder, but the fierce, distressed look on Felix’s face silenced the words before they came.

“Dimitri,” Felix said, insistent. How he had heard of it so soon despite Rodrigue’s firm advice to the knights to stay quiet, Rodrigue knew not. But there Felix was, hair in a tight ponytail and eyes narrow and demanding as only a boy’s could be.

Rodrigue’s shoulders slumped but turned to the young man. “Prepare one for my son, as well.”

There was no time for fighting, for convincing Felix to stay behind – Felix was as stubborn as any other Fraldarius – and Rodrigue was in no state to bother with it, heart anxious to ride to Fhirdiad and hear what little information there was available.

There was no time.

* * *

“Is Glenn fine?” Felix asked in a soft, subdued voice that the messenger accompanying them couldn’t over the sounds of hooves hitting the muddy ground. Normally so confident in his brother, Felix now looked unsure when Rodrigue glanced at him. “He is, right? He has to be, he’s—and Dimitri—"

Rodrigue’s heart sunk somewhere lower in his chest, but his face betrayed none of it. “We don’t know yet, Felix.”

But if Lambert was dead – if His Majesty and His Highness were both dead – then…

Rodrigue’s hands holding the reins remained steady, though his stomach didn’t. “We will see,” he said vaguely either to himself or his son, “we will see.”

* * *

They arrived in Fhirdiad well before the corpses were ever dragged back from Duscur, but not before the subjugation of Duscur had already begun – the Punishment, as it would later be called with righteous sneers and willful ignorance.

Rodrigue left Felix behind with the promise of updating him on Dimitri and Glenn as soon as he was free to do so – and Felix begrudgingly agreed, possibly remembering the few times he and Dimitri had attended meetings with the adults and how long-winded and dull things had gotten. Now, Rodrigue expected things to be different, but Felix still didn’t need to be a part of it.

Rodrigue only learned of the subjugation force through Rufus, Lambert’s older brother and the de facto stand-in ruler in the chaotic days that had passed and many more that would come to pass.

The conversation took place in the throne room, amid many other royal advisors and nobles, though the throne remained unseated. No one had the gall to take it yet, not at this point.

The crowd in the room only highlighted how empty the most noticeable piece of furniture was, and Rodrigue could barely bring himself to look at it. So, instead he focused on Rufus, by whose side he stood and whose eyebrows had scrunched up in dismay.

“It is as you’ve heard,” Rufus said, quiet and stern. The whole room fell into silence around them as the older brother of the king spoke. “My brother was assassinated after crossing the mountains to Duscur.”

Rodrigue’s head throbbed from lack of sleep the previous nights spent at inns had left him with, and the situation didn’t feel any more real than it had when the messenger had first arrived at Fraldarius. He resisted the urge to pinch his nose and rub his eyes; instead, he crossed his arms and studied Rufus’ profile. From this angle, the slight deformity of Rufus’ nose was quite noticeable. “A messenger?”

“A messenger pigeon,” Rufus corrected. His eyes lingered on the empty throne. “The handwriting was not his.”

It had been a couple days since Rodrigue had been delivered the message – and it must have taken a couple days for the messenger to deliver it, by that logic. Rodrigue’s face scrunched up, but still he ignored the nauseating panic that had been thrumming in his veins all this time.

“Has anything new been brought forward?”

Rufus’ voice was clipped, hard as stone: “As far as the new reports show, there have been no survivors.”

The panic in his veins now rung in Rodrigue’s ears. “His Highness? Lady Patricia?”

“Unconfirmed.” Rufus’ lips rose into a thin smile. “I expect the troops sent to Duscur to punish those monsters to at least find their corpses.”

Rodrigue stilled. The temperature around him felt several degrees colder. “Pardon?”

Rufus’ gaze – grey eyes, so close to blue but not close enough – flickered to him. Their stares locked, and deathly silence fell into the throne room until Rufus spoke. “In this case, the culprits are obvious, are they not? People of Duscur, whom my brother had gone to meet and negotiate with.”

The leap in logic was so staggering and sudden that Rodrigue rather felt like he had been tossed into an ice bath, fully clothed and all. Fortunately, many years of hearing ludicrous theories and plans whispered about helped him hold his ground. Barely.

“Rufus,” he said, just rattled enough to forget their surroundings, “they have nothing to gain from murdering His Majesty.”

“They have the means,” Rufus said disturbingly calmly for a man whose temper flared at the slightest insult, “and the required knowledge to ambush the royal entourage.” A well-trimmed eyebrow rose high on Rufus’ elegant brow, and the Grand Duke of Itha’s tone dropped below freezing. “Do you have doubts, Lord Rodrigue of House Fraldarius?”

 _Yes,_ Rodrigue wished to cry out. _Several, in fact!_

Instead, he held eye contact and said, careful but firm with his words: “I merely think that matters of this nature deserve a proper and thorough investigation before any rash decision is made, Your Highness. Forgive me for saying so, but this is much too hasty—”

Rufus’ heels snapped harshly against the stone floor, and the grey of his eyes burned intensely as Rufus stared into Rodrigue’s.

“They murdered my younger brother,” Rufus said, each word echoing off the blue-tinted walls covered in Kingdom banners, and everyone present flinched backward from the sudden burst of anger from the king’s older brother. “That much is evident.”

Rodrigue could not recall Rufus ever caring _that_ much about Lambert – not past the age of fourteen and not at the Academy. Rufus had always been busier with the fairer sex, one time even jokingly throwing a line in Rodrigue’s way to tease him about his pretty boy reputation.

And, well, there was the matter of Rodrigue’s first kiss and first — experiences of that nature. At the time, he had been young and foolish, thinking that the fate of unrequited love was the worst thing that could happen to him.

What Rodrigue wouldn’t do to be back in the problems of those days right about now.

Rodrigue’s eyes narrowed, the steady throb of his headache growing increasingly worse the longer he and Rufus stared at one another like two animals ready to fight over territory. “I fail to see any evidence that makes it so,” he said, icily. “Are you suggesting the entire population of Duscur was in on it?”

“An example must be made,” Rufus said, eyes just as cold as Rodrigue’s tone. “Our King has been murdered, lest you forget.” Those grey eyes, so familiar yet so utterly strange, narrowed further, demanding allegiance. Obedience. “House Fraldarius serves the House Blaiddyd, does it not?”

Rodrigue’s heart went still at that.

“And that is why,” Rodrigue said, gloved fingers twitching at his sides, “I humbly request you call back the knights.” His eyes fluttered shut, but his stance remained straight, proud. Very Fraldarius. No matter the sickening feeling in his gut – as usual, Rodrigue ignored it as he opened his eyes again and spoke. “As His Majesty’s confidante and advisor, I cannot abide this.”

Scattered whispers ran around them, low murmurs of _the audacity_ , but Rodrigue paid them no mind.

“And yet, His Majesty is dead,” Rufus said. The frown between his brows disappeared, and he almost smiled. “I may well be the last of the Blaiddyds in the direct line of succession for the throne. Is it not your duty to _abide_ by what I say?”

 _No,_ Rodrigue thought, _not you_ , _I’m afraid._

He said: “My duty is to offer my thoughts and see that the king takes into account more than his own narrow point of view.”

The whispers grew louder, and one court mage stifled a laugh. Rufus was not amused, but his eyes remained on Rodrigue’s in a fierce stare-off. It had taken years and years before Rodrigue had learned how to win these, but maintaining eye contact now was like second nature, beaten into him through politics.

Appearing strong when he was at his weakest – he supposed he could thank his father for teaching him that, albeit indirectly.

The weight on his shoulders pulled, always.

Rufus broke the contact firs, his head swiveling aside and offering a good sight of his slightly askew nose. Familiarly shaded blond hair tickled at the sides of Rufus’ undeniably striking face, and Rodrigue remembered—

The bruises on his thighs had yet to fade away completely from that night, though they might have been overridden by the bruises from the brisk ride to the capital.

Inhale, exhale.

_Do not get distracted._

“It’s too late, regardless of your opinion, Duke Fraldarius,” Rufus said. For a moment, he sounded just as tired as Rodrigue himself felt – if not even more so. “They should have made their way to the border mountains by now.” Eyelids drooped heavily as grey irises (that could well be mistaken for blue) regarded Rodrigue. “Duscur will pay for her crimes.”

The room erupted in cheers that had no place being there, like an odd reminder of happier days long gone now.

A cold dagger of anger dug its blade into Rodrigue’s heart as Rufus turned away from him.

* * *

At the tender age of seventeen, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius punched Rufus Algernon Blaiddyd in the face. No one would believe it if they heard of such – but no one did, save for the two people that lived through the said event.

One thing that most people didn’t realize about Rodrigue at a first glance: a pleasant face hid an impulsive side beneath it. Deeply buried it might be, but it existed – and persisted.

One person, and one person alone, brought it out of him.

This time, too, it was about Lambert – but instead of the usual carefree ‘let’s skip class’ impulsivity, this was a more violent impulse.

Later, Rodrigue couldn’t remember clearly what it was that Rufus had said – something snarky about Lambert, most likely – but what he remembered were his own shouts of “do not talk about him like that” and “you’re his _brother”_ and the sharp ache spreading through his knuckles as they connected with Rufus’ nose.

Later, he would be terribly ashamed of it and would heal Rufus’ broken nose – though that petulant part of him left Rufus’ nose slightly askew instead of fixing it up back to the straight and majestic nose it had been previously.

“Family is important,” he told Rufus after he was done, eyes unable to meet the other’s. “I wish you would appreciate what you have.”

From one big brother to another.

Even later, Lambert would come to Rodrigue’s dorm room and find him bandaging his hand up, the blue cape of the house leader swishing in Lambert’s wake.

Lambert whistled at the sight of Rodrigue’s bruised knuckles. “By the goddess, just who did you punch?”

His tone was light, joking – clearly having more faith in Rodrigue than he deserved.

Only when Rodrigue stayed silent and avoided eye contact did Lambert’s tone change: astonishment replaced the jokefulness, and even deeper still ran concern. “Rodrigue, did you really – damn, here I thought healers didn’t appreciate unnecessary violence.”

“One: I am… barely a healer,” Rodrigue protested mildly, wincing at how off his voice sounded. He sighed. Tried again. “Two… it was necessary.”

Still, he couldn’t quite meet Lambert’s inquisitive stare, cheeks burning with shame.

“As your house leader, I ought to ask you why,” Lambert said, resting a hand on Rodrigue’s knee as he sat down beside him. Unmindful of how the touch burned through Rodrigue’s uniform pants, as he always was.

“Lambert,” he sighed, “just… leave it, this once.”

He couldn’t just say _I broke your brother’s nose because he was saying bad things about you_ , after all. Even if he could, it would only trouble Lambert.

More than anything, Rodrigue didn’t want that and so he silently bandaged his hand up in his friend’s company, half-heartedly listening to Lambert talking.

Rufus never came after him for that, in the end… not until the ball, and not in the manner Rodrigue had thought he would.

* * *

It was Cornelia that pulled him away from the throne room amid all the chaos and noise, and Rodrigue was thankful. Mostly tired, with anger simmering deep inside. Hopelessness.

He should not have gone back to Fraldarius – he should have stayed, should have –

Rodrigue pinched his nose, and Cornelia’s hand rubbed at his arm. Not quite soothingly, but it was more comfort than Rodrigue would have allowed himself.

“Things got quite heated, wouldn’t you say?” Cornelia said, which Rodrigue somehow caught despite what felt like a thick fog in his brains, despite the difficulty of thinking straight when anger burned cold in him. Her hand squeezed, then, through the thick fabric of Rodrigue’s coat. “My, I have never seen you two argue so fervently.”

There was something decisively _wrong_ in her tone – something distorted, something far too chirpy for a moment as devastating as this – but Rodrigue could not find it in himself to focus on the oddity of it right then. Instead, he sighed. “If the Grand Duke didn’t act so hastily—”

Cornelia’s hand stilled. Rodrigue turned his gaze to her and saw Cornelia bite her lip. Thoughtfully – or to hide a smile? No, that couldn’t be it.

The impression vanished as she said, eyebrows lifting, “Who’s to say he’s wrong?”

Rodrigue pulled his arm away from her touch at that – recoiled away from it, rather, though he liked to think he had better control over himself after all these years. Even all that control did nothing to extinguish the burning chill of his irritation. “This is not the right way to handle this. You must see that, Cornelia.”

She was not as sympathetic as he would have expected an old friend to be. “His Highness is heartbroken,” she simply said, her voice overly sweet and nauseating. “He only wishes to see justice happen. Don’t you agree with that, my dear Duke?”

Rodrigue stared down the hallway Cornelia was gently walking him along. House Blaiddyd’s banners decorated the stone walls, the deep blue of them dark in the fading light of day, and Rodrigue could only think back to the times Lambert had led him down these halls as children. Back when nothing had seemed worse than disapproval from his lord father.

Rodrigue wished things could go back to being as — tolerable as they had been back then.

Wished it desperately.

“Where is the justice in this, Cornelia?” he asked, throat constricting until he swallowed. “His… Lambert’s body hasn’t even returned—and yet…” Again, Rodrigue pinched his nose, and inhaled sharply. “Were he here, he would not condone this.”

“Were he here,” Cornelia said primly, “none of this would be necessary.”

Rodrigue couldn’t disagree with that, but it did nothing to remove the horrible weight of knowing that he was far too late.

All he could do was wait now.

And wonder where Gustave had gone to – he had not caught a glimpse of the knight that had once overseen his and Lambert’s training at the capital.

* * *

Felix had never been particularly good at waiting, and the general air of uncertainty around the castle must have been getting to him as he was more sullen than usual when he that night appeared at the door to the quarters reserved for Duke Fraldarius’ stays at the castle.

“I can’t sleep,” Felix said, flushing and biting at his lower lip. His mother’s eyes peered at Rodrigue. “Glenn let me sleep with him when he—”

Felix’s voice trailed off, cheeks redder still, and Rodrigue’s own face twisted into one of the few genuine smiles he had been able to muster the past week. “I believe we both are facing that predicament, Felix,” he said. “Come in. I was just about to try again.”

It had been many years since Felix had last asked to get into his bed for sleep, and even back in Felix’s childhood it had been rare as Felix had Glenn and Rodrigue stayed up well past Felix’s bedtime. In fact, the last time had been after Rodrigue had returned from Sreng, exhausted and with hands that just wouldn’t cease trembling for weeks.

Felix was, despite the attitude he borrowed from Glenn, a kind child.

That night, they fell asleep with Felix curled towards Rodrigue, whose hand stayed draped over his son’s back and chin tucked over the top of Felix’s head.

Felix’s hands gripped Rodrigue’s nightshirt as they used to when he was smaller. Rodrigue would not make mention of it later, but – in this moment – that fleeting familiarity of older times gave his mind the final incentive to turn off and rest.

He even forgot to ask whether Felix had had dinner that night.

* * *

“The king… has summoned for you, hasn’t he?”

Her once so vivid copper eyes looked near lifeless as they peered up at him from the depths of the wide oaken bed she had sunk into, and Rodrigue’s heart ached as he squeezed her hand with his gloved one. It was all he could do for her, now.

“Yes,” he answered at length, heart heavier for it. “He has. But—”

“I know… she is… ill.” Her voice cracked, and her pallid, sickness-worn face twisted with pain that, this time, was purely emotional. “His Majesty… must be beside himself.”

Rodrigue’s heart sunk lower, if possible, weighed down by both her words and his own thoughts. Beneath the scarf pressed over his mouth, his lips drew into a thin line. “Lambert would never begrudge me for staying with you to the end.”

“He wouldn’t,” she agreed, and her cracked lips rose into a rare smile, “but you would.”

Rodrigue recoiled – but she wasn’t wrong, and the look on her face said she knew as much. Instead of trying to deny it, Rodrigue exhaled and contemplated his next words. “Even so,” he said, voice grave, “I…”

When she squeezed his hand, he barely felt it. “Rodrigue, my foolish husband,” she laughed, though it was a broken, crackling sound that hurt more than pleased. “I am telling you… _go_. Help her. Help him.”

From the delicate nightstand beside her bed, Rodrigue once more picked up a cloth to wipe the blood from her parched lips. His hands remained unshaken, even when his resolve wavered.

One learned quickly how to hide inner turmoil in House Fraldarius.

“You will likely live a day or two longer still,” Rodrigue said as he put the cloth away and studied the wretched, pained face of his dear wife. “Are you certain—”

“I am,” she said. To her credit, her voice didn’t quiver; if anything, she sounded more certain of this than any other decision they had negotiated over the few years they had been married. “Don’t let your sense of duty keep you from where you should actually be.”

Not just anyone would subject themselves to suffering and dying alone in her own bed, unable to have even one last glimpse of her children despite how close they were.

She, Rodrigue decided as he gave one last squeeze to her hand and wished he could plant a kiss upon it instead, was without a doubt the bravest person he had ever had the chance to meet – perhaps ever would.

“Then,” he said with finality that removed some weight from his shoulders, smiling sadly down at her, “this is where we part ways, love.”

Her eyes closed at that, and again the mattress beneath her seemed to dip lower as her entire body relaxed from relief. On her normally stern lips, the smile still lingered. “Do your best to save her,” she said, her voice fading into a sleepy tone, “unless you wish me to haunt you forevermore from the afterlife.”

“You make it sound so much worse than it would be,” Rodrigue said and forced himself to laugh and ignore the heavy impatience that shamefully flooded him then. One last squeeze to her hand, and then he left her behind.

Outside the door, one of his clerics was waiting for him, with a disposable bag held out open for him to toss his gloves into. He did just that, and said, “She’ll likely die tomorrow or the day after. Once you’ve confirmed her death—” he trailed off, brow wrinkling before correcting himself. “No. Make the preparations to burn her body as soon as possible.”

The plague had taken enough. He could at least try to keep it from taking more than its current share.

As he listed off instructions to the attentive (yet weary, as they all were these days) cleric, one of his soldiers approached, hand raised in salute. Rodrigue nodded his acknowledgment but didn’t hurry to finish. It was of utmost importance that the cleric understood what they were to do, after all.

Only after he was done and the cleric nodded did he turn to the knight.

“Lord Rodrigue,” she said. “Your horse has been saddled and is ready for your departure.”

Rodrigue stared. “Pardon me?”

“His Majesty sent His summons, yes? We have taken the liberty to prepare your horse for you, sire.”

The news did spread fast. Rodrigue smiled thinly, an odd ache in his heart at others knowing he would leave his wife behind to answer Lambert’s summons. As ever, his loyalties were no secret to anyone. While he usually would feel pride for it, there was a much uglier feeling mixed into it now.

He pushed it back and swallowed it down, as he had taught himself to do.

No time for such contemplations.

“Thank you,” he said instead of remarking on it. “I will be down at the stables within the hour. I must pack for the journey.”

Nearly an hour later, dressed in his least liked outfit with the least amount of teal and bags full of spare clothes and medical herbs that had helped his own wife very little, Rodrigue was on his way to Fhirdiad.

The winter cold beating against his face didn’t feel like anything compared to the rush of adrenaline and the need to _hurry, hurry, Lambert is expecting you to do what the more experienced medics in Fhirdiad could not—_

He was by no means a miracle maker.

For Lambert, however, he had always exceeded his own limits.

* * *

Several days later, they learned that His Highness was still alive. Barely, but alive enough to survive. The messenger was one of Gustave’s squires, having followed his liege to Duscur when Gustave had gone.

There were no other survivors, the squire informed the makeshift council of nobles that had gathered in the throne room.

 _Glenn_ , Rodrigue thought. The memory of Glenn riding away from the courtyard, head turned toward another knight and lips curled as he snorted out a laugh, flickered in his mind, so alive and vivid.

No survivors.

Duscur was burning, and soon her people too—

There was powerlessness, and then there was this: memories bleeding out of his mind just as his wife must have bled out all those years ago, alone but so very brave until the end. Close behind the memories came the terror born from knowing of the injustices shed in Lambert’s name.

Knowing that had he stayed in Fhirdiad instead of returning to Fraldarius, he could have been there to rein in the madness of Rufus’ grief—

 _Oh, Lambert_ , Rodrigue despaired. _You would never have wished for this._

* * *

The Queen Consort of Faerghus lay in her bed, surrounded by luxury and all shades of blue and white, but her rest was anything but peaceful. A high fever, followed with coughing that couldn’t have been anything but painful, and skin that had begun to deform from her illness.

It was at a very, very late stage.

He had seen it the moment he had glimpsed her from the door, and yet—

_“I’ll do what I can, Lambert, but please… you cannot join me in there. It is highly contagious.”_

_A tight squeeze at Rodrigue’s elbow, tired blue eyes pleading but resigned at the same time. “That is all I ask of you, my friend. Please… do what you can to help her. At least, ease her suffering.”_

At least that much Rodrigue could do, having already prepared the concoctions that had given his wife some ease during the time he had overseen her and, according to his father, been criminally negligent of a duke’s work.

And sword training.

Rodrigue had rather hoped that complaint would have ceased upon giving his oath of fealty to the king, but it hadn’t.

But it had become easier to put on a slight smile and shrug it off, which was what he did to the thought of that man now. Excluding the smile, as this was hardly the situation for that.

He dug through his bag for said concoctions and put them on the nightstand beside the bed, just as delicate and lovely as the one he had sat beside in his own wife’s chambers.

_Inhale, exhale._

He pushed the similarity off his mind, and gently brought his gloved hand to the Queen’s restless one. “Your Majesty,” he said softly when her eyes blinked open, though it was difficult. “Where does it hurt the most?”

“Everywhere,” she moaned.

He should have expected that answer. But his mind wasn’t at its sharpest: it had been six days since he last had the proper amount of sleep. Since then, perhaps six-seven hours altogether. Twenty minutes of accidental napping here and there.

He needed to—focus.

Lambert. His beloved wife. In pain – in unfair amount of pain.

Rodrigue reached out for one of the concoctions that had eased the lung pain his wife had experienced early on. “Let us try this, then. It should help with your breathing.”

Remembering that she was somewhat an herbalist herself, Rodrigue gently listed off the herbs it consisted. Whether it was that or the sound of his voice, Rodrigue knew not, but the Queen’s lips rose into the faintest of smiles.

“Your greenhouse has become so impressive,” she said with a trembling voice, so terribly weak. Still, the wrinkles on her brow soothed somewhat as she parted her lips to allow Rodrigue help her drink.

“Merchants have been able to procure seeds from south and abroad,” Rodrigue said as he pulled the bottle from her lips and watched her swallow the undeniably foul-tasting substance down. “Most of the thanks go to the gardeners.”

She coughed once. twice, and her body trembled with it, crumpled sheets around her becoming even more so. Still, she looked at him, lucid and thoughtful and exhausted to the bone. “It is… truly marvelous,” she murmured. “How is—”

Red stained the corners of her mouth, and that was the only warning Rodrigue noticed before she was already throwing up blood, nearly choking on it in her position.

Rodrigue moved to turn her on her side, movements brisk but steady, with the feeling that he wasn’t moving his own body and that it was someone else redirecting Her Majesty’s bloody vomit on themselves.

Red stained his clothes as the retching ceased.

Distantly, Rodrigue thought it was good he hadn’t ever truly liked this particular set of clothes. What an odd, irrational thought to have, but it was better than acknowledging the anguish lurking just beneath the surface of his own mind.

Inhale, exhale.

Rodrigue wiped her mouth clean with a spare cloth, her breath weak and strained against his gloved fingers as he did. Goddess, how far she was from the smiling bride flushed with happiness that she had been at her and Lambert’s wedding.

“Breathe slowly in and out,” he murmured, “as deep as you can.”

He needed no tool to hear the rasp of her breath, the wheezing quality that had been present in other cases as well. It was much more pronounced than it had been on—

Rodrigue inhaled through his nose, and the Queen smiled sadly in response. Plenty of other healers had done their part: tried to alleviate her symptoms until a complete cure could be found, to help her sleep and eat through her ailing health.

To some extent, they had succeeded. She really should have been dead by now, and she would be in a matter of hours, regardless of what little Rodrigue did to ease her suffering.

“I know,” she said, “it is selfish of me, but I wish I could hold him one more time.” Her eyelids drooped, and a droplet of a tear fell upon her cheek. Rodrigue wanted to wipe it away but couldn’t bring himself to. As if stones had been tied to his limbs to weigh them down. “Little Mitya…”

Rodrigue’s mouth drooped beneath the makeshift mask of cloth over it. Somewhere in the castle, little Dimitri would be crying for a mother that could not come, never knowing how said mother ached to see him too.

“Lambert already promised,” the Queen said, choking, “to tell him of me…” A laugh that racked her body and spilled more blood on her lips. “Even if… he still says I can… make it, the poor thing.”

Her hand feebly moved to squeeze his. “Would you… too? Tell Mitya of me?”

“Yes,” he said, even and sure, just as his father had taught him to respond in stressful situations. A pity that most of that learning had been due to the former Duke being the stressful situation himself. He even managed the same smile as he had often given his father during one of those scathing, one-sided conversations. The smile that never reached his eyes. “You have my word, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” she breathed – and those would remain the last words the Queen ever spoke, as she soon went unconscious, her body still writhing for an hour longer until it, too, ceased to move.

Rodrigue stayed with her, though other healers came and went, too.

His eyes remained dry, but the thought of breaking the news to Lambert threatened to water them.

When he did break the news to his oldest and painfully dear friend, Lambert’s already sunken expression sank further as his heavy-lidded eyes closed and his bulky body trembled with his sigh. The King of Faerghus had never looked so wretched in his still early years of kinghood, and Rodrigue’s travel and work-exhausted self could not tear his eyes away from the sight even if he should give his friend the courtesy of privacy.

How he wished he could do _something_ to comfort his friend – but that was out of his reach.

“I’m sorry, Lambert,” he said again, and this time his voice cracked. He would have rubbed at his eyes, had he not been still wearing the gloves he had on when he was with the Queen. “It was already…”

Goddess, he was _tired_ , and there was still more to do.

“You did what you could,” Lambert said, rubbing at his own eyes. The dark rings beneath them revealed the nights spent on worrying over his wife’s state. “That is… enough, my friend.”

Rodrigue did not feel like it was, not when Lambert looked and sounded as though somebody had torn off a piece of his own heart without the intend to return it. His eyes burned, both from exhaustion and the sudden urge to cry.

But a Fraldarius only cried alone, as their house’s creed dictated – and a Fraldarius only cried when it was all over, which this was not yet.

Rodrigue braced himself, and said quietly, “Her body must be incinerated as soon as possible.”

“Yes… you are right.” Lambert’s fingers fell from his eyes to the bridge of his nose, but the pained expression changed very little. “I should—”

“You don’t need to watch, Lambert.” He _shouldn’t_ , but Lambert, for better or for worse, was the type of man that _would_.

“No, no,” Lambert said dismissively. “It’s the least I… I can do for her, now.”

And so, three quarters of an hour later, the Queen Consort of Faerghus and the other recent corpses from the castle infirmaries were burned away in the courtyard, where air was cold and the wind even colder despite the fire that had taken to claiming the plague-ridden corpses.

Winter had come early, and snowflakes fell upon the audience around the bonfire of corpses and lost loves. The smell of it was absolutely horrible, though the makeshift mask still pressed over Rodrigue’s mouth and nose dulled most of it. The same could not be said for Lambert, who looked even paler and more wretched than ever as he stood stiffly but dutifully beside Rodrigue with blue eyes squinted painfully but remaining steadfast on the pyre.

Rodrigue, too, stared at the flames, feeling his energy drain the longer he stood still. Still, it was not yet time—

Lambert shifted beside him, leaning toward—

Rodrigue’s voice was a tad too sharp when he said, “No touching, Your Majesty.”

No matter how he’d have liked to lend his shoulder to Lambert this instant, the risks were too much to ignore. The Queen’s blood still stained Rodrigue’s clothes. No one knew just how the plague spread. No risks were allowed – hence why the King had been allowed only a brief visit to see his wife when the illness took her to bed.

Rodrigue had given orders to servants to arrange for an ice bath for himself – and to bring a disposable bag for his current choice of an attire – but first, he couldn’t let Lambert stand through the burning of his late wife alone.

His duty, both as a friend and as a Fraldarius, had always been crystal clear to him.

As he watched the flames lick at the sky, he thought of his own wife, who must already be nothing but ashes in a fine, ornamented vase, waiting for him to come to bury them.

If there was an afterlife beyond these flames before him – how he wished there to be one – perhaps the two women could finally reunite and be at peace and have what they could not in life.

And that thought, finally, eased some of the weight off his exhausted heart.

Half an hour later, he finally sunk into the ice bath carefully prepared for him. He had shed his clothes and stuffed them into a bag he left hanging from the doorknob outside the room before walking back to the tub and climbing into it with the energy and elegance of a man that had slept two hours in the past two days.

The ice-cold water stirred his senses, had him bite into his lower lip to silence the hiss that was coming up, and he certainly felt more awake thanks to it. For the following five minutes, at least, as his body slowly adjusted to the freezing temperature. His teeth clattered against one another, sound loud like the Queen’s hacking coughs from hours earlier.

In the silence of the private bathroom, Rodrigue still heard it even as he pressed his palms over his ears already covered by the now untied hair.

Inhale. Exhale. _Gather your thoughts._ But they were awfully scattered, and his mind went back to his wife, lying so weak in her bed as she told him to _go_ – and he had done so, and had been just as unable to help Lambert’s beloved as he had been to help her.

 _Breathe_.

His eyes burned, as though the fire incinerating the corpses had merely transferred into him instead of disappearing into the cold northern wind. They burned, and Rodrigue’s next inhale turned shaky, crackling without his permission.

The exhaustion from the past week and a half crashed in like a midwinter snowstorm, and a trail of silent tears soon followed the shape of Rodrigue’s narrow cheeks, eventually falling into the freezing water and onto the ice cubes pushing against one another.

He had done all he could, he told himself. As had many others.

His palms moved from his ears to his eyes, rubbing at his closed, aching eyelids.

A Fraldarius never cried until it was over, and never in company.

But it was over, and he was alone.

Shivering among the cubes of solid ice and freezing water, the young Duke Fraldarius cried into his hands, trembling from something much vaster than simple cold.

(Five hours later, Rodrigue found himself at Rufus’ doorstep, and what happened from there would eventually only be a blur in his memory. One that shamed him greatly, but also one that kept him going back to what little comfort Rufus could give.)

Later, Lambert would ask him about his wife. “I heard she had taken ill as well,” he would say, brows pinched with grief and concern. “How is…”

“She died,” Rodrigue would answer, as even and composed as ever despite the hollow ache that reached through his entire body.

“Oh. When… when did she…?”

“Right before I received your summons,” Rodrigue lied, a faint, sad smile on his mouth. He couldn’t quite look at his friend. Instead, he stared at the glass of imported wine before him.

“Oh… oh, Rodrigue.” Lambert’s hand came to Rodrigue’s shoulder, gave it a tight squeeze that nearly had Rodrigue’s still somewhat disoriented mind spin. Lambert’s voice, when he spoke again, cracked with regret. “I always ask so much of you, friend.”

Rodrigue’s hand left the glass to touch the hand on his shoulder, gently laying it on top of the other. Tried to not find pleasure in the touch. “I said I would always be there for you, did I not?”

This time, he dared to look back at Lambert, smiling a small but undeniably genuine smile. “It’s what friends are for, is that not so?”

“Yes,” Lambert agreed, and his smile was as warm as his lingering touch on Rodrigue’s shoulder. “But you must allow me to do the same for you, Rodrigue.”

“Perhaps one day,” Rodrigue hummed, eyebrows rising with his tease. “If I ever require your brute force for anything, I will send for you, Your Majesty.”

If the maids serving them were surprised by the ease Duke Fraldarius teased his king with, none of them showed it as they brought out snacks and filled their glasses once more.

(What they whispered about were his nightly visits to the chambers of the king’s brother, he knew.)

* * *

Lambert’s corpse was the first to arrive at the castle, as expected. Rufus gave him the dubious honor of inspecting the corpse – an honor that Rodrigue accepted, as he would have allowed no less.

He was a Fraldarius but beyond that, he was the person that had grown alongside Lambert, breathing the same air and eating the same food and training with the same weapon as he.

Before Lambert’s corpse, His Highness – Dimitri – had arrived, carried by Gustave, and accompanied by a boy of Duscur around his age. He had been unconscious, but undeniably breathing when Rodrigue had seen him (and Felix rushing after the crown prince’s solemn entourage).

The castle healers would attend to His Highness and fret over him on everyone else’s behalf, so Rodrigue had stayed and waited for the corpses to begin to arrive. For his king and for – for Glenn, as difficult as it was to imagine. He hadn’t yet told Felix, out of the sheer difficulty of breaking the news.

Later, hindsight would tell him he should have prepared Felix better for it.

For the time being, he had a task to see through: an intimidating, horrible task he never would have wished to undertake.

It would make Lambert’s death _real_ , so much more concrete than what it had been so far amid all the arguing with Rufus and the royal council. Rodrigue was – terrified, perhaps, but mostly he was exhausted from several nights of bad sleep and several rounds of attempted arguing with Rufus, who refused to see reason.

Politics. How awful they could be – they did not allow room for grief to settle in, did not leave time for full comprehension of the situation. A much crueler game than what Rodrigue could have prepared himself for under his father’s guidance. But he was a piece on the chess board of nobility, and so play he must.

The corpse had been taken to the infirmary closest to the dungeons, where the air was cold and stagnant but did nothing to make Rodrigue’s skin less clammy. Accompanying him was Cornelia, but he almost rather wished she didn’t as she, like Rufus, gave him a headache with the way she behaved. Unlike Rufus, whose grief manifested as stubbornness and anger, Cornelia was flippant, uncaring almost despite her honeyed voice and gentle hands.

“Are you certain?” she asked him, and Rodrigue could not understand the hint of boredom her voice held. “It is but a corpse, king or not. Surely someone else could inspect it in your stead.”

He sent her away for that, and she obliged, leaving a horrible feeling in her wake that Rodrigue could not shake off no matter how he tried.

She had been a friend. Was she, anymore?

The thoughts of Cornelia went away as soon as he got a look at the bed the body still in full Blaiddyd armor had been set upon, relatively in one piece, all limbs intact save for—

Save for the head.

Save for the—head.

The head that had been set upon a table separate from the bed, hair wild and tousled and more alike to the black of dried blood than blond.

Rodrigue’s vision swayed, blurred, for one threatening moment, but somehow he made it to the bed and the nightstand beside it, his hands already reaching out to grasp the head—

His hands were trembling, he noticed faintly. An ill feeling was stuck in his throat.

It was just—just a corpse. He had seen them before.

Just… a beheaded corpse of his dearest friend—his dearest—

He slammed one of his hands over his mouth, eyes shutting as the world swayed again. This was not—this was not right—Lambert wasn’t—

_Inhale. Exhale. Swallow the panic. Keep going._

It took more attempts than Rodrigue would care to admit to himself, but he managed to calm himself after a few deep, steadying breaths. The cold sweat on the back of his neck stayed, however, and so did the numb feeling in his glove-covered fingers. Still, he managed to bring his hands down to both sides of the head and lift it up for close inspection.

Lifeless eyes peered back at him as he turned the head to study the face. No flicker of life, no recognition passed through them, and even though that was only logical, Rodrigue couldn’t stifle the hurt and the burn in his eyes. Lambert’s glazed over eyes stared right past Rodrigue, never to meet his gaze again.

Blood had gotten onto Lambert’s face, as well, but there was no head injury asides from the obvious that Rodrigue could detect. Lambert’s mouth had gone stiff and purplish, now forever stuck in whatever order he had been screaming out in his last moments.

Rodrigue would never know what it was. Numbly, he ignored that thought and went on, reaching Lambert’s neck, where the head had been separated from the body.

Inhale. Exhale. Rodrigue steeled himself and studied the skin that cut off abruptly.

Burn marks were dark like bruises amidst the splattered blood on pale skin, but as Rodrigue ran a thumb over them, a nauseating, hair-raising feeling crawled into him. The sense of utter wrongness permeated through the glove, _through his skin_ , and left a deep, unsettling feeling in Rodrigue’s stomach as he stared down at Lambert’s neck.

It wasn’t fire that had caused the burns, but—magic. _Dark_ magic. Strange, corrupted reason magic that made Rodrigue’s senses tingle with alarm.

Lambert had been beheaded with magic, and not the kind of magic people of Duscur would have had an easy access to. They did have knowledge of it, as far as Rodrigue knew, but element-based rather than light or dark.

And this… this was very advanced dark magic, no matter how hair-raisingly disgusting the traces of it felt. Rodrigue could not imagine this kind of magic to come out even from Fhirdiad’s School of Sorcery, no matter how advanced the teaching there may be.

But where, then?

With steady hands and an unsteady heart, Rodrigue turned the head in his hands to take a look at Lambert’s face and the expression now forever stuck on it.

 _Oh, Lambert,_ Rodrigue thought, brushing Lambert’s hair from his forehead _._ Passively, Rodrigue observed the sight of dirt clinging to the pale forehead. As though in his last moments, Lambert’s forehead had been pressed to the ground. _You always make such careless promises._

“I have a great reason to try my very best to return, don’t I?” Lambert had said, with that familiar smile of his but a different kind of warmth in his eyes from the usual as he had regarded Rodrigue.

Who, in his foolishness, had let Lambert go—straight to his death—

Rodrigue blinked away the hot, searing feeling in his eyes and set the head down, hands trembling ever so slightly.

Inhale, exhale. Moving on to the body.

Lambert’s armor was bloodied but disturbingly whole, the metal almost shiny where it hadn’t been stained. Whether it was his own or someone else’s, Rodrigue could not say.

By all appearances, it had been a clean, fast execution.

A particularly dirtied pieces of Lambert’s armor hugged the body’s knees, and Rodrigue pursed his lips as the implications finally settled in.

Forehead pressed to the ground. The way Lambert’s head had been cut off – the angle of the slash, most likely with a magical weapon of sorts if not by pure magic. Knees and the armor around them, dirty with soil and blood.

Rodrigue’s arms went slack, dropping from the armor. The air in the infirmary didn’t feel cold at all, now.

Had—Had Lambert been— _overpowered?_ Forced onto his knees, head pushed to the ground, held there as something sharp and magical came down for his neck—

Having lived by the king’s side for most of his life, the very thought of Lambert being forced down on his knees and rendered helpless in the face of his own execution was damn near blasphemous. Someone like Lambert – who had snapped lances and swords in half since childhood – brought to his knees was…

Rodrigue’s chest constricted with nausea. Horror. His nerves both oversensitive to everything and numb at the same time.

Inhale, exhale. He’d been through death before – in many ways, again and again – but… _but._

His eyes fell upon the Crest of Blaiddyd on Lambert’s armor.

A splatter of blood crossed it, cut the Crest in half.

* * *

He made it out of the infirmary, only to lean against the wall and heaving out shallow exhales of air, cold sweat clinging to his neck and cheeks as he closed his eyes and tried to gather himself. There was so much more to do – taking count of the corpses that were coming, another fruitless discussion with the current de facto ruler of the Kingdom, and—the funeral arrangements would—

_Inhale. Exhale. Ignore the hurt like you’re supposed to. Your lord father taught you how._

The mental image of Lambert on his knees, head pushed down, hands desperately gripping the ground beneath them – it stayed, hovering at the edge of Rodrigue’s mind, and it made him nauseous.

Glenn would have rushed forward, then, to save the king, swinging his sword far better than Rodrigue ever could have. Far more bravely, unhindered by the generations and generations worth of expectations placed upon a Fraldarius heir.

Glenn was — that boy that loved listening to stories of knights and said, as early as a four-year-old, that he wanted to be a knight — dead for it. Only now did his death begin to become a reality, outside the infirmary that held the late King of Faerghus and, coincidentally, the very reason for Rodrigue’s life.

Why hadn’t Rodrigue been there, by their side? By his king, to whom he swore his fealty, his _life_? By Lambert, who he loved above all else? By his son, the brave little boy Rodrigue had once held and desperately reminded himself to be gentle with, for he was but a newborn?

He tried to wipe the cold sweat off his face, but it stayed regardless of how hard he wiped with his gloved hands.

 _Inhale. Exhale._ His heartbeat was much too loud in his ears. A sharp inhale, a slow exhale through nostrils. An exercise to quell panic, to stay calm, he had taught himself in the face of a disapproving, disappointed father.

A Fraldarius always—

 _Inhale, exhale, let it go._ Rodrigue’s throat constricted from the effort, parched like he had been stuck in a frozen desert in Sreng for two days without water. His eyes remained shut. Right now was not the time—

Heavy footsteps echoed down from the stone stairs that led to the infirmary and the dungeons, and a familiar but exhausted voice called, “Lord Rodrigue?”

Rodrigue opened his eyes and lifted his gaze, though the simple movement made his nausea pick up once more. As though he had been weeks at sea with no reprieve. The orange-tinted hair of his companion was familiar, and Rodrigue managed to bow his head in greeting. “Sir Gustave. Thank you for ensuring the safety of His Highness.”

Exhausted and nauseous he may be, but this was not the time to be weak and vulnerable. Rodrigue pushed himself off the wall, nearly stumbling as lightheadedness struck but he caught himself just in time with a hand pressed against stone, against a deep blue banner of House Blaiddyd.

“Are you unwell?” Gustave asked after a moment of silence, eyes dragged to where Rodrigue’s hand was pressed. Then, as if only then noticing Rodrigue’s words, Gustave bowed his head. “I fear it was not enough. Only His Highness and that boy could be saved by the time I arrived at the scene.”

“Well enough,” Rodrigue said hoarsely. More emotionally than intended. “You did well enough, Sir Gustave.”

He could not say the same for himself.

Gustave, stone-faced as ever but with a haunted look in his eyes, studied him in deathly silence for a minute or so before giving a slow nod toward upstairs. “The corpses that could be retrieved have begun to arrive. Lord Rodrigue… if you are done here, perhaps you would join me.”

Rodrigue didn’t look back as he brushed past the man that had been there training and teaching him and Lambert from a relatively young age. All the memories in Fhirdiad – all of them Rodrigue associated with Lambert, and Gustave had always been a significant part of them, as well.

“Yes, of course,” he said, already past Gustave. His throat still felt like he had inhaled sand from Sreng deserts. “There is much work to be done.”

* * *

What was left of Glenn was but many pieces of armor and a bloodied and broken sword, the final nail in the coffin that held any uncertainty about Glenn’s fate. Rodrigue numbly observed the armor and the sword Glenn had modified to fit his tastes better, and wondered how to break the news to Felix, who probably still hovered near Dimitri’s quarters.

It turned out he didn’t need to, because Felix came down to the courtyard himself, flushed with anger for one reason or another and missing the woolen overcoat he had worn before.

“Father,” Felix said, without paying much attention to what lay before Rodrigue and with a deep grimace on his face. “They say I can’t go in to see Dimitri, please tell them I—What are… Are those…”

“Your brother’s,” Rodrigue said, careful as he put his hand on Felix’s narrower shoulder. He couldn’t quite look to the side to see what face Felix was making, his eyes back on the pieces of the armor and the weapon that came back from Duscur instead of a corpse.

Perhaps for the best. Gustave had told him how mutilated some of the bodies had become – indistinguishable from one another, heads and limbs scattered across the plains the royal entourage had been ambushed at. Felix especially shouldn’t have to see his brother like that. Even Rodrigue felt queasy imagining it, though the feeling was downright mild compared to how he had been back at the infirmary the king’s corpse had been taken to for preservation.

“Why is this all that came back?” Felix asked so quietly that his words nearly got lost beneath the whistling wind that rushed through the courtyard like an uninvited guest. Beneath the claps of horse hooves, his next words were even quieter, shaking as Felix uttered them. “Where’s Glenn?”

“Felix…” Rodrigue wasn’t sure what he could say, what he _ought_ to say without sounding needlessly cruel. _Your brother was likely mutilated beyond human comprehension_ was not exactly a fair thing to say to a thirteen-year-old. Unfortunately, his tired mind could not find any other words to offer to his son, and as a knight came to them to give her condolences, his chance slipped by.

The knight, a tall woman with sunny blond hair tied high up whose name Rodrigue could not quite recall, offered them a quiet salute. “I am sorry for your loss, Lord Fraldarius,” she said, sincere and with an undertone of sadness that revealed her own feeling of loss. “He was a great knight, your son.”

Rodrigue pressed a hand over his heart and bent his head in agreement. What followed was – a foolish moment, one of the worst choices of words he could have made despite how common a phrase it had been post-Sreng some years ago.

It was meant to comfort, to soothe, and his own heart _was_ soothed by the words even amid the horrible noise in his head.

“He died like a true knight, protecting his liege. I am proud of him.”

Death was an awful, indiscriminate thing – but assigning a reason for it, a purpose, was comforting.

To him.

 _Not_ to Felix, who let out such a betrayed noise that Rodrigue had to turn toward him to see what Felix was reacting so strongly to—

Only to see Felix’s eyes blink away furious tears, lips curled into a snarl as he said, loudly, “How can you _say_ that? How—”

In the face of such anger from his son, Rodrigue froze stiff and stared down at Felix, unseeing and uncomprehending. “Felix…”

What followed was a litany of words that Rodrigue fully missed due to the angry sniffling they were said with, and Felix soon stomped off, gathering many stares from the knights that were busy unloading the corpses and taking them to the lower floors of Castle Fhirdiad.

Rodrigue could only stare helplessly at Felix’s hastily retreating back and wonder what he should have said differently.

* * *

When a Blaiddyd dies, a Fraldarius buries them. From the times of Loog and Kyphon, it has always been this way; perhaps it always will be.

* * *

Rufus, naturally, left the funeral arrangements to him. “It comes with the territory, doesn’t it,” he asked, a little too flippantly for a man that had _just_ lost a brother. “You would know the type of a funeral my little brother wants.”

“I must admit that such gruesome topics rarely came up in our discussions,” Rodrigue said wearily but accepted the questionable honor regardless. It would be by far the least frustrating undertaking consigned to him in this time of fear and uncertainty.

The material of the coffin, the carving of the Blaiddyd Crest upon the wood, the dressing of the corpse – all was left to him, and some tasks he delegated further as to still leave him time to observe the chaos in court as the remaining Faerghan forces returned from Duscur, with righteous but exhausted fury in their steps that had Rodrigue feeling ill and his head ring with _Lambert would never have wanted this._

His shoulders weighed, and his head ached more often than not, and the only way he could sleep was with concoctions, much like in the months following the deaths of his and Lambert’s wives. Back then, though, there had been a different medicine for it.

Concoctions could only do so much in the long run.

* * *

So many corpses were lost in the ruined lands of Duscur – Patricia Blaiddyd, née Anselma von Arundel, was not the only one.

But, as Rodrigue would discover, hers was the only corpse that had left no signs behind – gone like a ghost from this world, as though she had never existed.

Like so many other things, the significance of this would not dawn on him until much, much later.

* * *

Assisted sleep meant no dreams and no dreams meant not allowing his subconscious to dredge up the memories that loomed so close beneath the urgent matters on his mind. Memories of firm fingers tracing his face and lips following suit – dangerous memories, ones that would do more harm than good should Rodrigue think of them.

So he didn’t, even as the funeral arrangements came to a close and the burial date loomed ever so near.

Dimitri, His Highness, had awoken as well, and Rodrigue made sure to pay a visit as he knew Rufus would not.

He did not ask about Duscur. Dimitri didn’t say anything about it, either, though the haunted, exhausted look on his face said more than any words ever could.

It reminded Rodrigue of when soldiers returned from Sreng, not entirely of sound mind. Himself included, though he cared not to remember how he had been in the weeks following his return home.

He did not ask His Highness to recall his father’s unjust murder, nor did he ask about Glenn. Instead, he checked on his injuries, gently yet firmly, and was glad to find that the physical ones would most likely heal quite well and leave no permanent damage asides from scars.

The mental ones were a different story altogether, but only time could give relief to those.

Rodrigue wished it could, at least.

(He could never quite look at the boy that stayed at Dimitri’s side in the face. A survivor from Duscur – a survivor of another unjust act that Rodrigue ought to have been around to prevent. The guilt of it was—well. No amount of guilt would ever bring the dead back to life.)

* * *

Rodrigue dressed Lambert for the funeral, and for that he had to go through the royal chambers for his clothes. A task taxing on Rodrigue’s psyche, but he went through it with the help of a servan. Gustave joined halfway through, looking as glum and tired as he had ever since returning from Duscur.

In the end, Lambert would be buried dressed in blues and whites and golds, as was fitting of a Faerghan royal, with his head sewn back on his body despite the funeral being closed casket.

(It had been unbearable to think of laying Lambert to rest when he remained so mutilated.)

Rodrigue didn’t know how he would be able to bid farewell to the person that had been in his life ever since both of their youths, but he fulfilled these duties with steady hands and a heavy heart, not a complaint on his lips nor a tear in his eyes.

* * *

The Archbishop herself came to send Lambert on to the Goddess and her ever benevolent embrace. It was a given, as she had attended the previous king’s funeral as well – just as he was now, Rodrigue had been present back then too. Much younger and much more inexperienced, so unknowing of this future.

Her voice echoed off the inner walls of the Cathedral of Fhirdiad, as beautiful and serene as Rodrigue remembered it being, as comforting as a mother’s hand in her child’s hair.

“The Goddess shares in on our grief today, as we have gathered to part ways with a beloved leader and a friend to many,” Lady Rhea’s voice said, loud and clear and as steady as the cathedral’s stone walls. “Know that none of you are alone in your sorrow; our Mother watches over us and grieves by our side.”

Behind the pew Rodrigue shared with Margrave Gautier (Antoine, as Rodrigue was at liberty to call him) and Count Galatea as well as Count Charon and some others, their children sat with the exclusion of His Highness as he was still not well enough to walk long distances by himself. Rodrigue kept half an ear on them, but all of the children and even the much older Cassandra remained silent.

It didn’t bring much relief.

After the sermon, the coffin was carried off to the castle graveyard, and thus paraded through the city of Fhirdiad on its way to its final destination. Rodrigue and Antoine helped carrying it, as did counts Galatea and Charon. After them came Lady Rhea and the knights of Seiros at her side.

The procession went on slowly, and it left Rodrigue with too much time to stare down at the oaken lid of the coffin and mull in the knowledge that he would never again have the right to look upon Lambert’s face and find him smiling one of his carefree smiles that had made him so charming in the eyes of the public.

The knowledge grew ever heavier when they finally reached the castle graveyard. Previous generations of kings and knights had been buried beneath a soft soil. Their names were immortalized in stone engravings that said very little of how the men and women they described had lived – the gravestones only marked what the people would be remembered for in death.

Glenn’s memorial was already on its place, among so many others’. _Brave Glenn Fraldarius (1159-1176)_ , his stone said, _fought as King Lambert’s guard until the end._

Felix hadn’t been present when it was set there. Rodrigue hadn’t forced him to – had taken it as Felix’s own way of grieving.

Lambert’s gravestone had been engraved days ago, pushed into the stiff soil that morning before the sermon at the cathedral. _Lambert Egitte, of House Blaiddyd, the []nth King of Faerghus_ on cold, hard stone, followed only by his birth and death dates.

Beside the gravestone were his first wife and Patricia’s.

Before the coffin was put into the grave dug for it, Lady Rhea spoke once more, her hand pressed gently over the Crest of Blaiddyd engraved into the wood. Rodrigue’s gaze remained on that hand against the wood.

How fitting that it should begin to rain as Lambert was buried – that the rain should continue long after the coffin had been swallowed by the harsh Faerghan soil, once more claiming a Blaiddyd as its own.

By the end of the ceremony, Rodrigue’s hair stuck to his face and neck, but he barely noticed the cold touch of rain as he stared down to where his friend had been buried.

“You have a horrible habit, Lambert,” he murmured, as though he were alone even when the crowd had yet to leave the graveyard. His voice went lost under the much too lighthearted chatter around him, and blood rushed in his ears as he finished, “Of going too far ahead of me.”

It was not the time to cry – not yet, not yet, not until he was alone and all was over. It was the Fraldarius way, beaten deep into his bones and a brittle heart sheltered by more brittle ribs.

Goddess help him, he was beyond exhausted.

Yet more things remained to be solved, and reality did not wait for grieving men.

* * *

“Imagine the worst-case scenario,” Rodrigue’s tutor in politics and warfare once told him in the midst of a game of chess, “and prepare for it.”

Rodrigue’s eyes took in the state of the board: how pawns, bishops, knights were positioned. Her pieces were much more defensively positioned than his own – yet, danger remained as she was an unpredictable, unreadable player, and Rodrigue only had a thirteen-year-old’s limited patience for the game.

“The worst-case scenario,” he repeated, chewing on his lower lip out of bad habit his etiquette tutor had tried to rid of him. His eyes fell to his king, the piece that ought always to be protected and safe. Two rooks in their own corners, still unmoved. Rodrigue’s finger rested atop one of them, tilting it toward himself as he contemplated.

His tutor looked upon him impassively, her arms crossed over her stomach, hands tucked between her arms and sides.

He ended up losing that game, but Marie, his tutor, nodded approvingly afterwards. “Protecting the King no matter the cost,” she said as they gathered the pieces and the board aside. “That is the Fraldarius way.”

* * *

Over the next few days in Fhirdiad, something horrible began to dawn on him as he watched his fellow nobles bicker around the council table while barely maintaining the guise of a civilized conversation regarding the future of Faerghus. It was like watching two packs of wolves in a bloody skirmish – Antoine had taken him to witness such when they had been but boys and still clueless as to the gruesomeness of it all.

The two packs of wolves in the council room fought over the question of regency, and who was best to rule in the absence of a Crested Blaiddyd.

One of the packs was led by Antoine Ulysse Gautier, seated across from Rodrigue and whose brows were wrinkled and his bearded jaw clenched moodily. He had made it abundantly clear he did not care for Rufus as the King Regent over the last half an hour, and some others had nodded agreeingly with his points, though with more hesitance than the Margrave of the frigid Gautier territory.

Meanwhile Cornelia argued on behalf of Rufus – calling blood ties into the question all the while wearing a smile that was unsettlingly calm and the most inauthentic Rodrigue could recall ever seeing on her face.

She said: “Would it not be our good Grand Duke the one best suited for the role? After all, he _is_ the one with the blood tie to the throne and the heir to it.”

Her gaze swept across the wide table that had been painstakingly dragged into the throne room. Her smile, now, was that of a predator, and Rodrigue wondered idly since when she had been so fervently on Rufus’ side for anything. He could not recall a single time the two had agreed on anything – nor could he remember witnessing a full conversation between them.

Rufus, for his part, seemed pleased for her support, his lips forming a slight, though absentminded, smile. Rodrigue’s eyes could not help straying to the nose that was still slightly askew after all these years. Despite his parents’ intentions, the Academy truly had done nothing to improve the eldest Blaiddyd brother’s behavior.

Not that it had done that to Rodrigue either – not in the way the late Duke Fraldarius had hoped, at least.

 _Consider the worst-case scenario, and prepare for it,_ a whisper of a thought crossed his mind as his hands rubbed against a hefty mug of warm ale. Very few of the nobles around the table were drinking, as all seemed to have lost their sense of composure and patience with one another, busier arguing than taking the time and effort to consider all this.

Asides from Antoine, whose expression was as calculative as it was annoyed. Rodrigue bit back a sigh, his lips pursed into a thin line as he eyed the others.

The worst-case scenario, Rodrigue realized as he looked across the table at the bickering nobles, was that Lambert’s death had been orchestrated from within the Kingdom.

The thought immediately brought the taste of bile into his mouth, and Rodrigue looked down into the mug to compose himself. Distasteful as he found the thought, it was – it was _logical_ , given the protests Lambert’s recent attempts at change had brought up among nobility.

How the thought hadn’t occurred to him before was inexcusable. 

Rodrigue’s jaw clenched. Back to the worst-case scenario, which was: he might be seated amongst the conspirators in the deaths of two people close to his heart, one of whom had been the reason for so many of his life choices that not having him around was like being a five-year-old lost in thick woods without any guidance.

 _Think, Rod, think_ , his mind whispered with a voice not dissimilar to Lambert’s.

Faerghan court life had always consisted of nobles smiling at each other all the while holding daggers behind their backs, ready to strike at any sign of weakness. Like animals sizing one another up, trying to determine the level of threat to one’s own ambitions. 

It was a selfish world, and so allies were even more precious.

Houses Blaiddyd and Fraldarius had been that to one another for as long as the Kingdom’s independent history had existed, like two threads interwoven so tightly no one could untangle the resulting union. On a more personal level, Lambert had been the closest ally and a friend Rodrigue had ever had in his entire life. Antoine was another, though nearly six years older than Rodrigue and Lambert and so not _as_ present in their lives as they had been for each other.

(When they’d been at the Academy, Antoine Ulysse had been fighting with the Srengi by his father’s side, offering many tales later on at Lambert’s wedding.)

Rodrigue’s gaze moved to the pallid man a few seats away from him. Hans Tarjei Galatea met his gaze briefly before grimacing and looking down at the table before him. A man that had only recently began to regain weight after the years of famine tearing at his lands. A man that had lost almost as much as Rodrigue in the senseless tragedy, though not on a personal level, and who could not seem to decide where to stand on this matter.

A man Rodrigue had matters to discuss with later, but first came the more pressing ones. Such as the argument escalating right in front of him, which Margrave Gautier very much did not help with the way his fist slammed on the table to make his point.

Gautier privileges were envied by many, and perhaps Antoine had gotten a _tad_ too well-adjusted to his power over the Kingdom nobility.

Rodrigue suppressed a sigh and rubbed at his temple with his fingers over the cacophony. Some of the people gathered around him – they may be responsible for the untimely deaths of not only Lambert, but also his knights and the people of Duscur. It was a possible reality, and the thought of this made his fingers go cold within the confines of his gloves.

The worst-case scenario: the young prince Dimitri might be next, as he had miraculously survived something he wasn’t meant to.

Rodrigue’s hands went colder, and he dropped his fingers from his head as his gaze slid down on his mug of ale, which was going staler by the moment.

If he looked at things from an outsider’s perspective, unhindered by emotion, the situation on the chess board that was Faerghan political landscape became clearer. Instead of black and white pieces, however… there were at least three kinds of pieces. The surviving people of Duscur that lived in Faerghus; the Blaiddyd supporters; and then the conspirators against the throne.

Two groups out of the three could pose a threat against the young prince of Faerghus, who was still years off from being able to rule. Who shouldn’t need to worry about such things right then.

Rodrigue’s teeth bit into the inside of his cheek, and his eyes trailed to the person at the end of it. Rufus’ attention was elsewhere entirely, it seemed, even as he spoke quietly with Cornelia by his side. Blond hair had been swept behind his ears, and from a certain angle he looked so much like his little brother that it was physically painful to keep eyes on him.

He did not enjoy the thought of Rufus as the Regent of the Kingdom. Since the Academy days, the man had barely attended to his duties and familial responsibilities, both of which Rodrigue once might have envied but now only felt distaste for. Frankly, there were better non-Blaiddyd options. However…

The worst-case situation was the potential civil war, should Rufus’ temper flare up and have him decide that _no,_ the council’s decision – or indecision – was foolish. Likewise, His Highness’ safety was of utmost importance. For Kingdom, and on a personal level.

 _Oh, Lambert,_ Rodrigue despaired, not for the first time since the news had arrived. _Why did you take Dimitri with you?_

A useless thought. What had been done could not come undone by the wishes of those left behind.

Rodrigue took a long swig of his ale. For the liquid courage, as the saying went. He liked the taste better now than he had as a teen.

He slammed the mug down, with barely enough force to attract the attention of those seated nearest to him. Silence fell around the room in ripples, and all eyes turned to him, quick to mask away their individual emotions as they waited for the head of House Fraldarius to speak.

Rodrigue’s throat was dry despite the ale he gulped down just a moment ago, but his voice came out clear and even as he said, “House Fraldarius agrees that in His Highness Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd’s stead, Rufus Algernon Blaiddyd should take over as the King Regent until His Royal Highness is of appropriate age to rule.”

Antoine’s stare bore into him from across the table, and Rodrigue met his eyes with a level gaze of his own. Intense green eyes studied him for a long, heavy moment before Antoine heaved out a sigh and leaned back on his chair, waving his hand dismissively as he grumbled out, “House Gautier has no objections.”

One by one, the rest of the nobles murmured their agreements as Rodrigue turned his gaze to Rufus, who looked at him with his grey eyes that reminded Rodrigue more and more of steel. 

Rodrigue didn’t flinch. Neither did Rufus. For a moment, they merely observed one another, both with a passive face and a shared history that never went as deep as Rodrigue and Lambert’s. They were two people, whose lives grazed one another but hadn’t left much more than a scratch onto the other at most.

As well as a permanently twisted nose.

(But even a mere scratch could fester into something more dangerous; Rufus had taught him this.)

Rufus was the one to break the silence by clearing his throat and offering a tired but charming smile. Once, it could have looked warm around the edges to Rodrigue. Now, it merely looked contrived. “I thank you for your show of support, Duke Fraldarius. It is much appreciated.”

Rodrigue managed a twitch of his own lips. “Think nothing of it, Your Highness.”

What he missed during his staring contest with Rufus was the much too pleased smile that lifted Cornelia Arnim’s mouth upwards.

* * *

“You are certain this is the correct thing to do?” Antoine questioned him well into their horseback ride outside the oppressive, cold walls of Castle Fhirdiad. As usual for the time of the year, rain came down in light drizzle, setting a comforting and familiar backdrop noise for their conversation. Rodrigue had pulled the hood of his cape up, but Antoine had opted to let the rain soak his fiery red hair that, against the bleak greys of Faerghan nature, was like a beacon of color.

“I am uncertain whether there _is_ a correct answer to the current situation,” Rodrigue replied evenly, blinking away the stray drops of rainwater that had gotten on his eyelashes. His gloved hands held the reins of his mount firmly, without pulling. “But I know that this way, I can keep an eye on him and rein in his worse impulses, should the need arise.” Rodrigue’s mouth twitched but remained in a thin line. “The Kingdom cannot afford any in-fighting in the present, Antoine.”

Antoine, who only tolerated Rodrigue’s dropping the middle name on account of their friendship, gave only a contemplative silence in response as their horses’ hooves dragged along the muddy ground. It was only after they had reached the top of the hill they had been traveling on that he spoke, with a rumbling laugh accompanying his words. “You think I’m too used to solving problems with violence, do you?”

“You are as much a warrior as Lambert is… was,” Rodrigue said, voice tensing at the slip-up. “With fewer tendencies for diplomacy.”

Antoine’s snort ran undignified in the air, over the faint drizzling. “I see now where your eldest son got his sharp tongue from.”

Rodrigue’s mouth pursed further. “Antoine, please.”

The Margrave of Gautier had, at least, the decency to appear the slightest bit regretful as he tilted his head toward Rodrigue in a silent apology.

As usual, no vocal apology could be expected from him.

In their youths, it had been because of the age difference; now, it was out of pride. As with many other things, Rodrigue had grown to accept this as there was little he could do to change Antoine’s ways.

“You might be right,” his friend continued on with that gravely voice of his. “About the current situation. Everyone and their mothers’ eyes will be on Rufus, and he’s not quite as good navigating through those gazes as our old friend was.” Antoine’s forest green eyes trailed to Rodrigue. “Or you, for that matter. I remember you for the introverted child you were – and then you were such a rascal with His Majesty. And now…”

Rodrigue’s fingers curled tighter around the reins, and the mare tossed her head in annoyance in front, responding to his agitation. “As I recall, you were supposed to be our impulse control. That was what my father called it.”

“His Majesty was good at bribery.”

This time, Rodrigue could not help but laugh over the sharp ache that spread through his chest as blood would seep out from a stab wound. “That he was,” he agreed, eyes half-lidded as he peered at the grey skies to assess whether the rain would let up soon. The dark clouds did not promise such relief for them. “That he was, indeed…”

* * *

He checked on His Highness one last time before it was time for him and Felix to head home, as Duke’s duties would not wait on him forever regardless of how he arranged matters. Glenn deserved a proper funeral in his native lands, as well. His shattered sword would be buried in Fraldarius, while only a monument for him and other knights stood at Castle Fhirdiad’s graveyard.

Dimitri was awake and coherent, which was good, but Rodrigue could not say he left the infirmary feeling particularly relieved. In the end, he pulled Gustave aside and told him to look after Dimitri, though did not share his concerns for the possibility that someone might come finish the job they had started in Duscur. It was still possible that he was reading too much into the heavy atmosphere.

Gustave wore a weary, distant look, but he had nodded slowly and steadily. A promise from a trustworthy man; it alleviated the weight in Rodrigue’s chest just enough for him to join Felix in the carriage. Rufus, notably, did not appear to send them off, not that Rodrigue had particularly expected him to.

Cornelia did, however. She gave a wave of her hand from a distance that Rodrigue caught sight of just as he had sat down on the cushioned seat. It removed some of his lingering uneasiness, and he leaned to wave his hand out of the window for her in return. However oddly she may have been acting, at least now the initial shock seemed to be wearing off. For that, Rodrigue was grateful.

Felix, on the other hand, showed no sign of that, doing all he could to avoid Rodrigue’s gaze as the carriage took off and offering stilted, sarcastic responses when Rodrigue as much as tried to initiate conversation – even if it were unrelated to Glenn and the tragedy that had ruined so much more than just them. Perhaps it would have been better to ride their way back to Fraldarius: they had ridden to Fhirdiad, after all, but Rodrigue’s body ached from stress and carriages were kinder to ailing bodies than horseback. But at least riding a horse would have spared them from the angry and awkward conversation.

In the end, Rodrigue fell silent as exhaustion from the past days and weeks caught up to him. Sleep, however, did not come as easily – thoughts of Lambert’s death did. The cold, clinical assessments of what had transpired… what _could_ have transpired.

He hadn’t had much time to consider what the traces of that darker strain of magic on Lambert meant, asides from the obvious conclusion that something far more sinister than trade negotiations gone wrong had happened.

Why Lambert had gone to Duscur in the first place was to finalize those negotiations, to finally give Duscur equal footing with Faerghus when it came to trading. Economically independent Duscur might have been, but it had relied on Faerghus for a long time – something the Kingdom had taken advantage of despite their peoples sharing common values and even friendship.

By all accounts, people of Duscur didn’t have any reason for the senseless assassination of the king, regardless of whether they had the means to accomplish the feat or not. Certainly, the High Council of Duscur had been informed of the route Lambert and his entourage were taking, but asides from them…

They had very few reasons to act. Perhaps the trade terms could have been better still for Duscur, but Rodrigue could not imagine it would be enough to drive the people into more than a protest, if that. On the other hand, the people that the renegotiated trade agreement could potentially hurt were… the Kingdom nobles, particularly of smaller houses near the Duscur border.

The thought still brought cold sweat to the back of Rodrigue’s neck and so he shifted on his seat, crossing his legs as he sighed aloud at his own thoughts. Felix remained silent, though Rodrigue felt the prickling on his skin that came from Felix’s quick, angered glance. He said nothing on it and continued his contemplation as the persistent ill feeling in his stomach curled tighter.

That dark magic, though… a tainted form of reason magic, certainly, twisted to the point where Rodrigue’s skin still prickled uncomfortably at the memory of the sensation. There were no such practices in Duscur, as far as Rodrigue knew, and neither in Faerghus, unless Fhirdiad’s School of Sorcery had changed their ways since Rodrigue’s brief stay there.

He made a mental note to pay the school a visit sometime in the future, just in case. Should it yield any results, Rodrigue could confirm it to be an assassination arranged from inside the Kingdom – though as far as evidence went, it would be far too light, like a single feather of a bird.

If Rodrigue allowed his mind to stop, the memory of Lambert’s head, separated from the rest of him, emerged. He could not – could not afford to think about it now, not when he wasn’t entirely alone. His hands gripped at his elbows, tight, unrelenting, until he was sure he would find bruises later.

Inhaling, then exhaling, exaggeratedly and slowly until the pressure between his temples and chest went away. The many nights of assisted sleep were beginning to show – concoctions and tonics were not meant to be consumed so often, but he hadn’t had many options.

_Think._

Back to the conspiration, if there was such a thing. Rodrigue trusted Antoine as much as he trusted himself and slightly less than he trusted Lambert – he highly doubted Antoine was involved, despite the man’s grievances with Lambert’s reforms. Among friends, disagreements were usual; between the three of them, even more so, though Rodrigue was notoriously bad at holding onto his disagreements with Lambert.

Antoine had always held that against him, shaking his head impatiently at Rodrigue whenever he failed to persuade Lambert from doing something.

As a king, Lambert had been a better listener; as a friend, he was too much for Rodrigue to deny indulgence. But even as king, Lambert could be so horribly stubborn sometimes – and while Rodrigue could be stubborn in political matters, he was never quite able to stand up against Lambert’s will.

Lambert wasn’t a political enemy, nor an unknown in the chess board of politics.

Oh, the regret he felt thinking about it now.

_Inhale, exhale. Don’t let your thoughts wander, Rodrigue._

As far as other nobles went, Rodrigue could warily remove Count Galatea from the list of potential political backstabbers. His region was simply too reliant on the Blaiddyds for them to ever bite the hand that fed them. Hans Tarjei Galatea was more likely to starve himself than let anything befall either his sole daughter or his region.

If it was to the benefit of the Galatea, perhaps, but Rodrigue had never known Hans to be that shrewd of a man. He would like to think that he was well-acquainted enough with him by now – after all, it was to Hans’ daughter that Glenn had been engaged.

Count Charon was a possibility from the larger houses, as much as Rodrigue would like to think otherwise. But as pleasant as the memories from the many jousting competitions in Charon lands he had witnessed, the possibility was undeniable.

And then there were the smaller houses, who were always waiting like scavengers out for freshly spilled blood. The potential for treachery certainly existed there, though not necessarily the material means to accomplish the task. No minor noble house could pull the feat off by itself – especially since the royal entourage’s route was kept secret from those not directly involved. The conspiracy had to go deeper than simply minor houses.

The attackers had known where to set up an ambush, most likely. Rodrigue would have to wait to hear more from his own scouts and what little Rufus would share with him on the investigation that happened _far_ too late to suppress the number of unnecessary victims.

The question was – had someone _at Castle Fhirdiad_ been a part of it? The thought had been lingering in the back of Rodrigue’s thoughts for many days, before he acknowledged Rufus as the King Regent. Some part of him perhaps had assumed…

Based on personal history, both his and Lambert’s as well as His young Highness’, Rufus wasn’t an impossible suspect. _However._ As distant as he was from the rest of the main Blaiddyd family, that did not offer an explanation as to why Rufus might have his own little brother murdered, even if only indirectly.

Well. There was a possible reason, but Rodrigue hoped Rufus wasn’t _that_ petty.

(An old argument rang through Rodrigue’s memories, in that instant. His own, much younger, voice retorting: “He is your _brother_ , Rufus!”)

Rodrigue’s brows furrowed deeper as he contemplated Rufus further. He was an active, outgoing man – pleasant at times, and Rodrigue understood well why some chose to share a bed with him – but his capacity for seeing the bigger picture had always been limited by his own short-term goals, be it a person or gold. Rufus opted for easy, quick solutions, which was unbecoming of a man of his status, but no scolding from his and Lambert’s parents had ever done any good.

Rodrigue wondered if Rufus, like he himself did in the past, had only smiled through those lectures without any intent on changing his ways.

Perhaps. Rufus had always said they were more alike than Rodrigue thought.

Rufus was the King Regent now. If, by any chance, he was involved… now he had very little room to act in terms of the only threat between himself and the throne. Rodrigue would have to visit Fhirdiad often enough to remind Rufus – and to check up on Dimitri, as much as his schedule and work allowed.

And then there was the matter of Cornelia.

Perhaps he was overthinking it. She was still, always had been, a woman of faith, a loyal servant of the Goddess as much as she had been a faithful vassal of His Majesty. Casting suspicion on her was ludicrous – no matter how strange her behavior, it could be a result of the shock Lambert’s sudden passing had inflicted upon all of them. It could be the lingering grief from her own personal tragedy back in the Empire. If the new incident had triggered something… Rodrigue could not – would not – fault her for freezing in the face of something so… so…

Disastrous was a word for it, but unsatisfying in how it described the chasm Lambert’s death left behind in the Kingdom and in Rodrigue.

 _Inhale. Exhale._ Now was not the time to weep.

Rodrigue’s gaze trailed to the window beside him, toward the scenery passing by at a mild pace. Rain had yet to begin in earnest, but the sullen greyness suggested it would soon. The Faerghus-typical chill seeped into the carriage, as persistent as ever.

Felix, across from him, had fallen asleep, as was made evident by the way Felix’s head lay against the carriage’s windowed door with his nose slightly less scrunched than usual. Dark bags beneath Felix’s eyes almost hid amid the Faerghan greyness.

He took after his brother, so much, but Felix had always been the most like his mother. Rodrigue’s lips pursed and pulled down at the thought, observing as Felix’s frame shuddered on his seat. He hadn’t had much of a chance to talk things through with him – not since the day Glenn’s armor and sword had been brought back – and, quite frankly, he did not know how to broach the subject without agitating Felix further.

His temper, like Glenn’s, hadn’t come from either of his parents.

The late Duke Fraldarius had perhaps been a little too invested in his grandchildren.

Rodrigue unclasped the cloak around his shoulders and moved swiftly across the carriage, spreading the teal fabric over Felix for extra warmth. Gently, as to not stir him. Felix slept deeper now, but as a baby he had woken at the slightest disturbance. He had been told so numerous times. but he had witnessed it himself as well on the occasion he passed by the nursing room.

Rodrigue found himself smiling faintly as he finished covering Felix. After pulling off one of his gloves, he went on to brush the back of his hand against Felix’s forehead. Felix sighed in his sleep, his head lolling further away until Rodrigue pulled his hand back.

No fever. That was good. They could travel for a while longer before the darkness would begin to set in.

Rodrigue tugged the glove back on and returned to gazing forlornly out of the window as the carriage bounced unevenly on the rocky road toward the Fraldarius territory.

* * *

Once upon a time on a visit to the Kingdom capital, 12-year-old Rodrigue found himself in Rufus’ company after a training session with Sir Gustave. The knight was still speaking with Lambert as Rodrigue sank down into the side of the training grounds, using a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty face clean. His arms ached from the simple movement, and that was when 16-year-old Rufus Algernon Blaiddyd joined him, his landing beside Rodrigue prompt but graceful.

“My brother doesn’t let you off easy, does he,” Rufus asked, a delicate eyebrow raised high as he eyed at Rodrigue’s weary demeanor. His hair rested on his shoulder in a lavish, golden ponytail, and Rodrigue found the sight of it more distracting than the amused, teasing glint in the eyes that were almost but not quite blue.

“He is very strong,” Rodrigue said, smiling as he turned to look at Lambert, who appeared sheepish as Sir Gustave sighed at him.

“For a 12-year-old,” Rufus acknowledged, with an odd tone that pulled Rodrigue’s eyes back to him. Rufus’ eyes too stared at the younger Blaiddyd and the knight, blond brows furrowed subtly and mouth down in a less subtle frown.

Rodrigue did not know what to say to that, so he merely put the handkerchief away into a pocket and set his hands down on his still vaguely shaking legs.

“You are never going to be a match for him, you know,” Rufus said. His words were light, carefree, but Rodrigue saw the way Rufus’ fingers curled and uncurled beside him. “Being the mortal child you are.”

“I don’t need to be,” Rodrigue said, his own brows furrowed with confusion. His hands tingled with the familiar surge of magic that came more often than Rodrigue called it out. Rodrigue dug his fingers into his knees, just to stop it. He needed more practice with it, too. “Only strong enough to protect him.”

Rufus’ laugh was quiet, but it had his shoulders shaking. His hand came to rest upon the top of Rodrigue’s head, unmindful of how the Fraldarius boy went rigid beneath it. “That’s easier said than done, little Fraldarius.”

“Father says it is what I must do,” Rodrigue said quietly, as still as a rock and suppressing a shudder. Accepting physical touch from people that weren’t Lambert never got any easier; even the maids’ touches as they tidied him for important events made his skin crawl.

Boys ought to not be so sensitive, and so Rodrigue said nothing of the hand in his hair.

“Fathers say many interesting things,” Rufus drawled, a hint of something Rodrigue couldn’t quite grasp in his voice, “don’t they?”

At this age, Rodrigue was well-attuned to people’s moods. One would have to be in House Fraldarius, after all. And so he saw the way Rufus’ nose wrinkled in distaste, in similar scorn as Duke Fraldarius did whenever Rodrigue ( _still!_ ) failed to grip a training sword properly in balance.

Rodrigue’s throat went dry. “They know much more than we,” he said, quite reasonably in his own mind. “They cannot be wrong, can they?”

Rufus looked down at him then, with his shimmering grey eyes and fondness that Rodrigue felt should have been directed to Lambert instead.

“Everyone can be wrong,” Rufus said. His ponytail remained in its place, loosely pressed against his shoulder. Silence, for a few more seconds. When he spoke next, Rufus’ voice was grave, harder than Rodrigue remembered it ever being. “If it weren’t for your Crest, you wouldn’t be his friend.”

Before Rodrigue rediscovered his ability to speak, Rufus continued, softer, “You would be my friend, instead.”

The hand in Rodrigue’s head stroked down his hair, and while it should have felt pleasant, Rodrigue only felt more squeamish. “No,” he blurted out, eyes wide as he gazed up at Rufus. Anxiety pounded in his throat – the concept of not being friends with Lambert was – no. Rodrigue shook his head, firm and defiant. “I’d still be his friend.”

Rufus’ eyes narrowed in response as his hand withdrew, easing some of Rodrigue’s discomfort. Still, he clutched his knees tighter to keep his hands from shaking. His lips curled down into a half-hearted pout as he mumbled – oh, how he’d scolded for that, a Fraldarius ought to be clear-spoken at all times – to Rufus, “I don’t want anyone else to be my best friend.”

No response came from Rufus, only a pinched expression twisting minutely at Rodrigue’s words. The moment passed when Lambert’s clear voice rang through the air, “Brother! Are you joining us for a study session? Sir Gustave said we’ll be going through siege tactics.”

That had Rufus scrambling up to his long legs, dusting himself off before shaking his head dismissively. “Not a chance, Lambert. Afraid it’s going to have to be just you and your little Fraldarius over here.”

Rodrigue didn’t know why watching Rufus scamper off filled him with dread, but soon it didn’t matter as Lambert was already pulling him up from the stony steps. With a smile that could make even the dead feel at ease, Lambert began leading them in the direction Sir Gustave had already walked off to, and Rodrigue’s unease was replaced with contentment instead.

Above them, the sun was shining with very few clouds in the way.

* * *

Return home did not bring any relief, only more work and excessively more letter-writing. Most involved Count Galatea, as there were matters to settle in the aftermath of Glenn’s death. Some of which concerned the supplies and dowry Rodrigue had promised to deliver to the territory largely stuck on mountains.

Rodrigue would continue sending supplies to his way, as much as he could afford. As for the other matter… he’d think on it a little more after reassessing his own territory’s situation.

He also wrote to Count Charon, but responses from him were scarce and worryingly short, the count’s usually proper writing now closer to the chicken scratch his daughter was famed for. The count had been in good enough spirits and in health by the time he had left Fhirdiad following the funeral and the heated negotiations regarding the regency, but much could apparently change in a manner of weeks.

Arranging for a proper funeral for Glenn took up some of his time, too. Felix gave him a murderous look whenever he so much brought it up at mealtime, which was the only time they spent time together uninterrupted. Glenn hadn’t eaten with them for two years, and yet it was only now that the dining hall truly felt empty of his presence.

In the end, they buried Glenn’s armor into the castle graveyard. A true knight’s burial with all the solemnity that came with it. Felix didn’t utter a single word through it, his face scrunched up and eyes narrow and angry, and Rodrigue did not know what to say to him as what remained of Glenn was buried into the ground in a casket.

It didn’t rain that day. Rarity for Fraldarius territory and Faerghus in general outside of wintertime. Instead, the sun peeked through the clouds and burned much too bright when everyone would have preferred the greyness.

A heavy but necessary affair it was. Rodrigue only pushed himself through it by telling himself that there were worse ways to die than protecting the king, that Glenn had no regrets and was at peace wherever it was that afterlife took him. A proud boy he had been, and proud he should remain even after.

Between politics and Glenn’s funeral, Rodrigue found little sleep. He hadn’t made sleep concoctions since his return from Fhirdiad, and as a result he found that many nights he could only lay restless in his bed, just as wide and desolate as it had felt since his wife’s passing. All the luxury in the world could not make it feel like home again despite the familiarity and the lived-in feeling of the chamber.

It was the price those left behind had to pay, Rodrigue knew, and that was what made it worse.

* * *

The news of Christophe Gaspard’s execution spread wide – and Rodrigue wouldn’t later remember paling at the news, but that was indeed the initial reaction it evoked.

The church had executed the poor boy as a willing participant in the king’s assassination. He couldn’t have been too many years older than Glenn, at least not by a full decade, and the thought weighed Rodrigue as he reread the notice from the Archbishop herself.

 _The Goddess’ justice has been seen to,_ she wrote, _and we pray that this will give peace to those that lost their lives for the actions of this senseless boy._

He wished they’d have contacted him first so he could at least have had a talk with the young man Lord Lonato had always been so proud of. But the knights of Seiros didn’t answer to anyone but the Archbishop and the goddess. And, Rodrigue thought as he eyed at the pile of unopened letters on his desk, the Kingdom was hardly capable of handing out judgment as it was.

Still, he wished he could have spoken to Lonato’s son. If for nothing else, then for his own peace of mind. But Goddess graciously denied him even this.

Very carefully, Rodrigue pushed that feeling away as he tore open a message from the scouts he’d sent to Duscur.

There was much work to do.

* * *

Soon came stranger rumors.

Cassandra Rubens Charon, Count Charon’s eldest daughter and heir apparent, was formally accused of also playing her part in the king’s death. Rodrigue was not surprised to hear the accuser was Lord Lonato, and even less surprised when Count Rowe backed those accusations up.

Surprising as it might not be, it still troubled Rodrigue that the Kingdom’s lords were already pointing fingers at each other. Internal dissonance and discord never fared well for any nation – even the Empire of the old had threatened to crumble in on itself for similar reasons.

(And it had – otherwise Faerghus would not have been founded – but Adrestia had never perished like so many nations of ancient history. Truly a land blessed with the grace of Saint Seiros and her goddess. Doubtlessly, Empire would go on existing despite her own internal strife, whispers of which reached even Rodrigue’s ears.)

Rodrigue had met Cassandra a handful of times both in Fhirdiad and in Castle Charon, most often swinging her sword at the training grounds or teasing the crown prince for the way he held his training lance or the length of his hair. She had never taken to horses and jousting as her aging father had, but her footwork and fencing more than made up for that in Count Charon’s eyes.

The late Duke Fraldarius had, many years ago, judged a much younger Cassandra as exceedingly talented. He had already passed the title on to Rodrigue back then, but the man still insisted on joining his son everywhere.

 _If only she were a man,_ he had said, _and a Fraldarius._

Rodrigue no longer remembered what he had said in return or if he had said anything. At some point, tuning out his father’s words had become easier than confronting them. If nothing else, his father’s general attitude had more than prepared Rodrigue for the unpleasant truths of politics, and for that he would always remain grateful.

Regardless, he knew Cassandra through her father, a man with some fourteen or more years on Rodrigue, and it was through her father that Rodrigue also learned that she had fled her home in the wake of Lord Lonato and Count Rowe’s accusations.

He had gone to Charon to dig into the rumors himself, but by the time he arrived, Cassandra was already gone and Count Charon waiting for him, dressed in warm furs for the rapidly chilling weather.

“My apologies, Duke Fraldarius,” he said as Rodrigue climbed off his horse, a temperamental thirteen-year-old mare named Maribelle. Rodrigue handed the reins to a stable boy, who hurried to lead the mare off to shelter from the approaching snowfall. The knights accompanying Rodrigue also got off their mounts, following the stable boy at Rodrigue’s sharp nod. Count Charon sighed audibly as he gestured for Rodrigue to follow him inside the castle proper. “I have received your letter, but I fear the reason for your visit is no longer around.”

Castle Charon was less sturdy than the massive monuments of the north, but no less impressive. With mountains pressing into its back, Castle Charon was the Kingdom’s southernmost stronghold. Galatea territory was a little more up north and to the east, a cold wasteland as an odd, contrary result of the goddess’ rage on Ailell many centuries ago.

Rodrigue adjusted his thick traveling cloak around himself as he followed the count. Winter had yet to reach Charon, but up north it was already in full swing. Snowfall had practically nipped at Rodrigue and his knights’ heels on their way, but at least they had arrived before the worst of it.

“No longer around?” Rodrigue repeated as they made their way out of the stables. The cold winter wind stole away the worst of the smell and the nervous whispers amongst the stable workers. Rodrigue caught the occasional whisper, too low for the aging count’s ears, and the anxious looks passing knights exchanged with one another as the two high lords walked by.

“My daughter took to the night,” the count said, and they went inside the wide oaken doors that led into the castle’s entrance hall. No oaks grew all the way up north, so it had to be imported from south – in truth, Castle Fhirdiad’s impressive oaken doors were made of wood brought from Charon’s lands. What material they had originally been built of, no one was sure.

Castle Charon’s building had required no importation of materials, as the mountains were near and woods relatively rich for a Faerghan county. It had been built the fastest, and renovated the most over the years, and even now the eastern towers were under repair.

For most part, however, the castle was as Rodrigue remembered it from many years ago with its narrow halls and tapestried walls. Likewise, Rodrigue recognized many of the servants that curtsied to him before resuming their tasks.

Castle Charon had always been filled with joy and laughter, but even there a shadow of gloom had crept in, the air thick with unspoken things and concern. Count Kyril Julian Charon looked like he had aged ten years since the royal funeral in the capital. Rodrigue could not blame him. He felt like he had aged twenty.

“Cassandra?” Rodrigue inquired, and his heart dropped. “She has gone?”

“The very same,” the count said, and his impressive, whitening moustache quivered as he pursed his lips. Their steps echoed off the stone walls. For a while, they were the only sounds in Rodrigue’s ears as he contemplated the new turn of events. The count’s tired blue eyes bore into him as they made their way up a staircase. “Allow me to treat you to dinner, Lord Rodrigue. Forgive me for saying so, but you have become as pale as a ghost.”

“I wished to speak to Cassandra,” Rodrigue said. The long ride from Fraldarius had left him with aches, the most persistent one being in his head. “Have you sent anyone out to search for her?”

“…Yes,” the count said at length. His hesitance didn’t go unnoticed, and Rodrigue furrowed his brows. A few seconds passed, and the count’s posture hunched ever so slightly forward. “I fear my daughter is more than capable of losing them from her tracks, however. Force will not bring her back to us now, I’m afraid.”

The expression that lingered on Count Kyril’s face did not appear very sorry for this.

* * *

House Charon, with very few exceptions, had always been particularly fond of jousting and tournaments of any kind. They even assisted the church with the hosting of the Battle of Eagle and Lion, though it took place within the Empire – according to Rodrigue’s lord father, who despised the whole concept of tournaments but tolerated the Battle of Eagle and Lion as it was an actually useful experience.

One summer when both he and Lambert were still sixteen, House Charon arranged for a jousting tourney in their lands. Naturally, all the major even the minor houses of the Kingdom were invited: count Charon was in an indulgent mood after the birth of yet another child, or so the whispers went.

This one didn’t have a Crest, apparently, but the previous one born late in the last summer did. Either way, Rodrigue’s lord father was quite annoyed about it.

“That man has almost thrice the number of my children and he’s barely thirty,” Duke Fraldarius complained to his duchess through the carriage ride to the territory.

“Darling, if your other sword was as sharp as Moralta’s, we too would have six children,” Rodrigue’s mother responded patiently, a slight edge of boredom in her voice that she had grown weary of dulling. 

Later on, Rodrigue only remembered wondering if these truly were the same people whose torrid love affair House Fraldarius’ servants still recounted stories of – as well as the duke’s adamant refusal to allow Rodrigue participate in the tourney even though Lambert and many of the Gautiers were taking part in it.

“Cheap entertainment for fools,” his lord father sniffed, his stern face as hard as a block of rock. “A Fraldarius should play no part in it.”

The duke had an infamous dislike of horses to begin with, so perhaps Rodrigue ought to not have been surprised. Rodrigue himself had taken to the creatures as soon as his tutors had introduced him to one, while his brother was more of their father’s mindset even at his tender age of ten. Still, in a country with a geography like Faerghus’, horses were a mandatory evil as far as transportation went.

When the time for the tourney came, Castle Charon and its surrounding lands bathed in sunlight – what was a rarity up north was nearly commonplace down south.

Rodrigue did not participate in the tourney, but he was seated in the audience with his family, close to the royal family and the Charons and the Gautiers. Members of House Galatea sat nearby, as well: their oldest son, Hans Tarjei, would be in the tourney, but his younger siblings more than made up for his absence.

Rodrigue rather wished he were down at the horse-trodden fields instead of being seated beside his grim-faced father and a little brother suffering from a horrible case of boredom. At sixteen, he was more than legible for the affair – certainly more than willing, even if he were just to be an assistant to a more experienced healer when an injury inevitably occurred.

Alas, two things his lord father disliked most were jousting and the concept of his eldest son taking to healing arts – and so, Rodrigue was forced to witness the event from the safety of the elevated platform that held the tourney’s noble audience.

Cheap entertainment it might have been, but Rodrigue couldn’t tear his gaze off from the action; from the knights and noble heirs that faced off against each other on horseback and with lances in hand. Both Antoine and Lambert got through their first matches just fine, without so much as a scratch to their armor.

Rufus, too, made it through his. Rodrigue could not catch his face beneath the helmet, but he imagined Rufus to wear a bored, if not haughty, expression beneath all that silvery metal donned with Blaiddyd blue. His form with lance needed some work, though, Rodrigue noted, especially when compared to the older knights and the Gautier siblings or even his own little brother.

But he was tall and he was handsome – Rodrigue heard often whispers of gossip about who would be the lucky noble lady wed to him. He was no knight but he was a prince, and some liked that better. Crest or no Crest, his blood was true and could bear a Crested heir – a spare for Lambert or his future heir.

Thinking of it brought a bad taste in Rodrigue’s mouth, though he knew well his own position was only granted to him by his Crest; not him being the firstborn and certainly not his skills, as much as his tutors may praise his intellect.

The tourney distracted him well enough from such thoughts. The eldest daughter of House Gautier, Antoine’s oldest sibling, dressed to impress not only in her armor but also in the count of knights she felled from their horses. She knocked off a knight serving House Blaiddyd as easily as ill men sneezed.

And when she took off her helmet to greet the audience, her long hair burned like fire under the sunlight.

The crowd cheered for her, for Francisca Adelaide Gautier, and Rodrigue thought he caught her sneering in her youngest brother’s direction as she left to give room for another pair.

Healers dealt with the fallen knight who hadn’t risen to his feet yet, and Rodrigue’s hands itched again with the urge to cast magic. They often did these days as his knowledge of the healing arts grew, hidden from his lord father’s eyes.

Count Kyril of House Charon did not partake in the tourney himself, but several of his siblings did. An old house they were, and they had more family than anyone’s fingers and toes could count. The count’s younger brother had the misfortune of facing off Antoine in the second round. While the youngest of the Gautiers – still had good six years on both Rodrigue and Lambert, and two on Rufus – was far surer with an axe, he handled a spear with experienced hands, which was no doubt thanks to the Srengi.

He knocked the count’s little brother right off his horse without his own stallion so much as missing a beat in his trot. The crowd went a little quieter at that; Francisca had been one thing, but the Gautier heir received little love from other major houses.

Rodrigue glanced to his side and saw his father’s expression tighten minutely as he considered something. Hair like midnight had been pulled up into a tight ponytail and yet strands of it fell down upon his high cheekbones. His posture was impeccable as ever, and Rodrigue straightened himself to mimic him. A striking man, even when surrounded by royalty and other high lords of the country.

But there was a young man down in the tourney grounds far more striking than Rodrigue’s lord father and nowhere near as difficult to look at. Rodrigue fought with himself to not lean forward whenever he appeared at the grounds on his stallion, as white as the Kingdom’s mid-winter snow. His armor glimmered beneath the sun, and the blue carvings of Blaiddyd crest shone just as well, but brighter still burned Lambert’s blond hair, competing with the light dancing upon it.

Each time Lambert made an appearance down below the audience, a loud, rambunctious cheer rose among the crowd. Rodrigue’s mouth parted to cheer with the others but shut as Duke Fraldarius’ withering stare burned on him, hotter than the sun and yet colder than the northern wind. Lambert raised his hand to greet the audience each and every time before setting a helmet upon his head and gripping his lance properly.

Oh, how valiantly he fought his way through the tourney. Sixteen years of age, and yet he felled a knight after knight from their horses, either with smart maneuvering of his lance and shield or simple brute force. Rodrigue’s heart raced to the beat of the trot of Lambert’s pure white stallion, and it refused to settle as Lambert bowed his head to the audience afterwards.

It was no surprise to him when Lambert made it to the final match – but Rodrigue felt uneasy knowing it was with the older Blaiddyd brother that Lambert would cross steel.

Even his lord father stirred in his seat, his often frowning face furrowing once more as the mounted brothers came out to the fields. Both of them in their traditional Blaiddyd armors, though Lambert’s was a touch shinier and with a speck of gold to mark the crown prince. The crowd cheered them both – but the cheers for Lambert rang longest and loudest, and now it made Rodrigue uncomfortable as he remained as silent as his father.

Rufus’ mare tossed her head around, as though expressing her annoyance, while her rider remained still as stone in the saddle. But he too remembered his manners and greeted the audience with a wide wave of his spear, to which the crowd gave cheers and claps again.

“You must be proud, Your Majesty,” Rodrigue overheard Count Charon tell their king. “Such skilled sons, both of them, not to mention the Crest…”

“If only they learned to behave,” the king said gravely. “As it is, they both give me nothing but heartache. The Crested and Crestless one both. The dead bring much less grief with them than my sons.”

Then it was no longer time for talk as trumpets announced the last match to begin and the two brothers encouraged their horses into gallop. Rodrigue’s hands clenched and nails dug into the fine fabric of his pants, heart thudding to the beat of hooves hitting the ground. He should have been there, he thought not for the first time. As a healer, at least. As a young lord with a skill for riding.

But he could not mull over these thoughts any more as the brothers thrust their spears at one another. Steel clashed against steel, and the sound rang through the air. Rodrigue flinched at it despite himself, but his brother perked up as though only now his interest in the event had been piqued. Perhaps it was for the chance to see Rufus thrown off his horse – for some reason, Theo both feared and loathed the eldest Blaiddyd brother.

Rodrigue gently pulled him back fully onto his seat before it was Theo himself that fell, but his eyes remained on the jousting grounds and the two brothers. Neither had fallen on their first clash, but the gallop of Rufus’ mare slowed and grew unsteady as he pulled them around and went for another round.

Rufus was good on horseback even if his lance-handling required more dedicated work, but Lambert was _one_ with his stallion – or so it seemed to Rodrigue, whose heart soared as Lambert rode hard to meet his brother, each step of his stallion’s gallop as loud as thunder in Rodrigue’s ears.

It happened as fast as lightning struck: Lambert’s lance connected to Rufus’ armor with great enough force to knock the eldest Blaiddyd brother off his horse along with his respective lance that hadn’t managed to make contact with Lambert. Again, a cheer broke through the audience, and Rodrigue joined in this time, rising to his feet as he was unable to contain himself in the face of his friend’s victory. Even Duke Fraldarius and his simmering glare could not hold him down to his seat.

Down on the ground, Lambert held his lance out to the audience, his helmet off and his smile radiant as the day itself. Whoever’s honor Lambert had fought in the tourney for, and whose blessings he had asked for, Rodrigue knew not. It did not even matter, not truly, as Rodrigue could not stop himself from smiling, just as happy for his friend as Lambert himself was.

The older knights might have had yielded to him on purpose, but with Lambert’s Crest, who knew for certain? Rodrigue had seen him break through the armor of bulkier men than the tourney participants before.

What he remembered from that day, even years and years later: Lambert in his shining armor, riding to the audience, offering a young noble lady something Rodrigue could not see. His armor, silver and blue, shining brilliantly under the sun. Lambert’s wide, breathtaking smile when their eyes met a moment later, and the way Rodrigue’s own heart leapt at the sight.

A memory only a sentimental, lovesick fool would cling to.

What he _should_ have remembered: his lord father rising beside him, setting a hard, calloused hand behind Rodrigue’s neck and redirecting his gaze away from Lambert and toward the other young man that had only just then risen to his knees in the dirt of the tourney grounds.

“Remember this, child,” the duke had said grimly, a deep furrow between his brows as he studied Rufus down on the ground, “a fool is the most dangerous animal of them all.”

What Rodrigue should have remembered: the long, bitter stare Rufus gave to Lambert’s back, and the clumsy manner with which Rufus climbed up to his swaying feet.

But he was sixteen, and Lambert looked so handsome in his armor and with his smile. A child he might not be, but a besotted fool was close enough to one.

* * *

“What do you make of our King Regent, Lord Rodrigue?” the count asked from him once they had been seated in a dining table and a sparse meal laid before them. It was plain, as Faerghan meals oft were: venison soup with little spicing accompanied with fresh bread that the common folk would stab a knight or a lord for during worse times. Which might be looming ahead, Rodrigue mused inwardly as he bit into his piece.

He chewed thoughtfully before swallowing and having to give voice to his thoughts. Thinking of Rufus removed much of his appetite. “He’s never been the type that inspires faith in other people, I find.”

The count nodded his agreement as he nursed a cup of wine between his fingers. “Having people’s love is one thing; leading justly is another. What do you think of him in that prospect? He may only be a placeholder until His Highness ascends the throne, but five years is a long enough time for disaster.”

Were five years even long enough for Dimitri to both process what had happened and to prepare for the demands of the throne? Rodrigue recalled vividly the vacant look in Dimitri’s eyes when he had bid him farewell before returning to Fraldarius.

Sothis, let it be enough.

“His Majesty’s brother, as I know him, was never made to lead people,” Rodrigue said slowly, eyelids heavy and half-lidded as he studied his plate. His latest memories of his once-friend weren’t encouraging, either.

When had his last good memory of Rufus taken place, even?

His throat constricted with the phantom feeling of fingers pressing around it, and immediately Rodrigue chased _that_ thought away.

Follies of youth were best left forgotten, no matter how heavy on the heart they might be.

He took a sip from his own cup. The journey had been long, and the wine was warm. “But better him than risk the chance of unnecessary infighting at a time like this,” he said, thinking of Antoine and his fury at the council table. “That is how I see our situation now, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Count Kyril’s expression remained thoughtful when Rodrigue looked back to him. Lines of stress surrounded his eyes. Rodrigue didn’t dare to think of how his own face must look to the other. _Pale as a ghost,_ the count had called it. The count went on to say, between sips of wine, “He often refused compromise when that should have been the road to take, didn’t he?”

Uncompromising was indeed a good word for him, and Rodrigue gave a small nod to indicate so. “It is easier to negotiate with the stubborn living than the dead,” he said in contrast, swirling the cup as he thought over their situation once more. “Until the truth of it all comes out, I fear we must forgive him his transgressions.”

“The truth,” Count Kyril repeated the word, and his sun-kissed face twitched with agitation. His wrinkles were too deep for a man in his early fifties, but his hands were as firm and steady as a man half his age. “Goddess only knows where that lies.”

“I had hoped Cassandra could enlighten us some,” Rodrigue said, gaze flicking upwards. A chandelier hung from the low ceiling, candles burning fiercely. “How unfortunate that she cannot.”

“I wish I could give you the answers, my lord,” the count offered. A touch of red stained his whiskers of a moustache, but more visible was the grief in his eyes. “Alas, the only supper I can offer is on the table before you.”

And that, Rodrigue suspected, was all he should have expected from this visit to begin with.

* * *

It did not escape him that the House Charon’s pride and joy, the Relic called Thunderbrand, was nowhere to be seen.

Count Kyril refused to give him a straightforward answer about it, and in a way, that was answer enough in itself.

* * *

What had looked like snowstorm chasing him and his knights turned into a hailstorm by the time it reached Castle Charon.

Rodrigue would have liked to begin the long trek home that night, but one look at weather proved it unwise and so he accepted the count’s invitation to linger as long as they wished.

“Besides, there is much else to talk about between you and I,” Lord Kyril insisted. “A friendly conversation in trying times is good for the heart.”

He was not wrong, and Rodrigue swallowed his disappointment in it all and smiled a little in return as he was led to one of the castle’s many parlors. Hs knights did not join, and it was for the better.

The nighttime was when the real challenge would begin.

* * *

Weeks had passed by since Lambert’s burial, and weeks had turned into months, and yet sleep evaded Rodrigue that night as a maiden might scorn her suitors. He had learned to sleep in his own bed again, but a foreign bed did not allow him the luxury of rest. Not with the storm whistling outside.

And so, his thoughts circled around like the vultures of south.

First came up Glenn, as he often did, because he was the only one that Rodrigue could permit himself to think of. A harsh-spoken boy, who wore a heart of gold and steel. His eyes and hair from Rodrigue, but his attitude influenced by both his grandfather and mother. Mostly his grandfather, Rodrigue thought.

A Crestless boy, and so dear to Rodrigue.

Rodrigue hadn’t asked Dimitri if he had seen how Glenn died. That would have been too senselessly cruel towards the crown prince, the boy Rodrigue had seen grown alongside his Felix.

But during the nighttime he wondered, and his restless mind played out scenario after scenario. The memory of the remnants of the filthy, abused strain of reason magic he had found on Lambert’s beheaded corpse flickered back to life. His skin crawled at the mere thought of it, and he turned his back to the window and the moonless, stormy night.

Yet, behind his closed eyelids, he saw Glenn burning in the flames of the dark magic he had never seen. With him, dozens of knights burned and screamed even as they tried to protect the royal carriage.

Before his mind could wander to Lambert’s fate, Rodrigue’s eyes snapped open, a deep but shaky exhale on his lips. Asides from the distant flashes from torchlight trickling in through the cracks of curtains, the chamber was dark, the fire having died out a little while ago.

He had so hoped for some answers from this journey, but instead he had more questions and nothing to alleviate his unforgiving grief with.

 _Fool,_ Rodrigue chastised himself as he stared at the empty nightstand beside his bed. In the darkness, it was only a vague form. His mind spoke with his late father’s voice, _You should have been with them._

Glenn hadn’t had the Shield, and Lambert hadn’t had his Areadbhar. Two mistakes that now struck Rodrigue, from the knowledge that Thunderbrand was gone from the castle halls it once protected.

Costly mistakes; all from his own inability to be sterner with Glenn and Lambert.

* * *

Eventually, sleep came for him. It did not offer much rest, however: only dreams.

He knew it to be a dream, for he was seventeen again. Or eighteen. The only real marker of his age was the half-dressed Academy uniform on him as he waddled through a snowstorm as thick and suffocating as a mother’s embrace was said to be.

His heart pounded, but not for fear for his own life.

“Lambert!” he yelled, but the snowstorm took his voice and silenced it. He tried again, to no avail, and tears froze in his eyes before they could land on his cheeks. Snow got inside his boots somehow, and he could feel it melting and dampening his socks.

He couldn’t see through the thick snowflakes and the harsh wind. His horse – for certainly he must have had one – made no noise audible over the roaring storm. Still, forward he went, for what choice did he have? Dying alone in a snowstorm was not something he could afford to do, not right then, when Lambert—

Where _was_ he? Something twisted Rodrigue’s anxious heart, and he forgot himself as he arduously stepped forward and yelled for his friend – the treasure of his heart, in truth – again.

His throat constricted from the effort he put into screaming, and he had to pause to breathe, a hand clutching at his anxious chest. If only he had his uniform jacket, he would not be freezing so. But alas, the cold seeped through his clothes and into his bones regardless of whether he moved or halted.

“Lambert,” he called out once more into the storm, “this is not funny.”

No answer came, and Rodrigue struggled on for what felt like half an hour longer until the storm came to a sudden halt and he was left in a snow-filled clearing. The air was still freezing cold, but the wind no longer bit through Rodrigue’s thin clothes and snowflakes didn’t blur his vision.

That was about as much relief as he got, however, as he found neither Lambert nor his horse.

What he found was a crossroads and a signpost – and what looked like a young man beneath it. The young man lifted his head then, intentionally slow, and Rodrigue caught sight of a mostly burned face and what had once been long hair but which had been taken away by fire.

The young man had once worn armor, but all that remained it was leather. He didn’t rise to greet Rodrigue, who suspected he might not even be able.

The young man’s – boy’s, really – face twisted as he barked out, “What are you doing here?”

Rodrigue should have been frightened, but he only felt sad. _The bite is never as bad as the bark,_ his lord father had said. _Watch out for the ones that only smile and give sweet words freely, child._

“I’m looking for my friend,” he told the other boy.

“He’s way up north,” the boy said. Even his response was hostile, defensive. His eyes were clouded, unseeing or close to it, but they still stayed on Rodrigue. “Not a place for you to go to yet.”

“I must,” Rodrigue insisted.

“You _can’t_ ,” the boy said angrily and tried to rise to his feet. His struggle was to no avail, and Rodrigue’s heart ached. Only when the boy’s unevenly burned hair parted enough did Rodrigue fully see the scar that ran down from his forehead to his upper lip. “It’s not your time to go there.”

“My prince is there.” The word tasted wrong on his tongue. _Prince?_

“Without his head,” the boy said harshly. His blank eyes burned while his hands, even more burned than his face, cradled a broken sword. “Turn back. There’s no one that wants you here, least of all your king.”

Rodrigue didn’t wish to go but his legs turned him around regardless, for there was something urgent in the other’s tone that compelled him to do as told.

There was something he had to do before he could reunite with Lambert. The truth of it made his heart heavy, but he kept on moving.

Not more than ten steps later, the boy – young man – spoke again. “Father,” he said, and his voice was a touch softer through the rasp, “you look much better without the beard.”

When Rodrigue leapt around at that, the boy was gone, and Rodrigue’s lips parted with a soundless call of a name he wasn’t supposed to know yet –

* * *

“Glenn,” he choked out as he awoke with a violent start. His poor heart pounded so hard for a moment he thought he might be experiencing a heart attack. Until he regained his senses and realized that he was still in the spacious guest chamber Lord Kyril of House Charon had graciously located him to.

The room had gone cold, but the chill was almost pleasant against Rodrigue’s sweaty face. His fingers beneath the blanket on the other hand were stiff as he moved them.

Glenn’s burned face lingered. _Father,_ he had called him, soft and miserable. Yet, there had been humor in his voice, raspy as it was. _You look much better without the beard._

Rodrigue threw off the blankets and stood up to his bare feet. They slipped into soft-heeled shoes after some fumbling around, and Rodrigue went to the window. The short travel was tedious in the dark, but he found the curtains and the handle to open the glass windowed doors.

Only when the cold wind brushed against his face did Rodrigue dare to release his breath completely. Beneath his balcony burned dozens of torches, their light naught but a flicker. But that was not where he looked.

Hail had turned into proper snow during his miserable attempt at sleep, and flakes fell thick and heavy around him and all the way to the clouded horizon.

Winter had come to Charon and the Kingdom. It whistled and blew around Rodrigue, who shivered but stared onward in spite of it all. Winter had come, but in truth it had arrived many weeks before the first snowfall.

Glenn’s voice, an echo in the whistling wind: _It’s not your time. Turn back._ Rodrigue inhaled and swept back the hair that the sleep and storm had ruffled. 

_An odd thing_ , he thought, his heart as heavy and dense as stone, _to envy one’s own son for dying_.

It was said that the longer one stared into an abyss, the more likely it was that the abyss would stare back. As Rodrigue peered into the pitch black of the night, he could easily believe it.

And yet he knew that he must stare into it, unblinking and without straying.

One or two step-backs – named Christophe Gaspard and Cassandra Charon – were only the tip of the mountaintop. At the foot of the mountain, there had to be something _more_.

The memory of Lambert’s head between his hand sickened him even now, but he recalled it nevertheless. Glenn’s broken armor and sword, all buried away in the hard Kingdom soil.

He made a vow to the wind, to the goddess, to his son, and to his dearest what-could-have-been in a voice that was very unlike his own: it cracked, but it never took the words back.

_Wait for me, both of you; I will see that justice is done on your behalf and to you._

(Little did he know, he had already caught the attention of the abyss.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update's going to take a while, since these two chapters are all I have written so far, lol. The chapter count might go up again because I can't behave w this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


	3. the prince of nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You who I called friend, how could you have come to hate me so? Is _this_ what you wanted?
> 
> Let my heart be hardened; never mind how high the cost may grow...
> 
> (This will still be so: I will never let you go.)

Dimitri’s physical recovery had gone well. Rodrigue thought it was partially thanks to his Crest, along with the castle’s experienced healers. No permanent damage on any of his limbs; the mental damage was yet to be seen, but Rodrigue could not find a way to assess it properly. Dimitri did not need to be probed neither physically nor mentally any further, he could tell the moment he visited Fhirdiad again after long weeks of absence.

He was suffocating on the inside, despite the polite face he offered. Rodrigue knew loneliness when he saw it, and Dimitri was almost irredeemably so. 

And that was why Rodrigue asked, “Your Highness, would you care to go on a horseback ride with me? And Felix, if he is agreeable.”

He wasn’t – two things he hated the most right then were horses and his father, after all – but Dimitri took Rodrigue up on the suggestion regardless, and that was relief enough. Rodrigue doubted Rufus had ever taken the time to bond with his nephew, and Dimitri’s expression when he’d asked about it told as much.

 _You fool,_ Rodrigue thought. _The children are innocent in all this._ He was useless when it came to his own son, so perhaps he had no room to talk. Time, he figured, would open room for a proper talk with Felix. There must be a time when Felix’s angry, betrayed face and words would cease to remind Rodrigue so terribly much of Felix’s grandfather. Just not yet, not when old wounds were just as tender and raw as the new ones.

Talks like the one he needed to have with Felix were never done well when emotions ran high. Rufus was a prime example of that, in his mind. If only Rodrigue could take back the heated conversations that had followed immediately after the Tragedy, then—

No, thinking of it that way would do no good. Rodrigue stood behind the words he had said, regardless; a fool must be called a fool lest he managed to convince everyone that the senseless massacre of Duscur was just.

The boy of Duscur that had followed Dimitri home – he looked stiff as he said in stilted words that he would not be able to join.

“Horses do not take to me well,” he said, voice faintly accented and apologetic as he spoke to Dimitri. He deliberately avoided looking at Rodrigue, but one didn’t need to see his eyes to notice he was tense with anxiety.

“Dedue,” Dimitri said softly, his brows pinched. “They’ll never get used to you if you don’t join me every now and then.”

“They are not so difficult creatures,” Rodrigue confirmed. Easier to deal with than people, in most cases. His mare Maribelle, who was as headstrong as a bull sometimes, might have been the sole exception from any other horse he’d met. But she was back in Fraldarius, either causing problems on purpose or behaving like the charming little lady she could be.

“Still,” the boy said, and when he glanced at Rodrigue, it was with great wariness. “I should prepare a bath for when you return, Dimitri.”

And that was that.

* * *

They rode out of the castle grounds and away from the city, and Dimitri’s pallid complexion began to look a little less so in the pleasant cold of winter afternoon. Furs pulled around him, Dimitri looked as though he might drown beneath his dressing, but his hair shone like gold and his eyes held a brilliant blue glitter in them when he smiled at Rodrigue truly for the first time since the Tragedy.

They hadn’t _talked_ about it, but Rodrigue had a difficult time thinking about the Tragedy on his own and more with thinking about bringing it up to Dimitri. The best he could do was to shield Dimitri from the danger that might be lurking close by and to offer him companionship when his uncle refused.

“It feels good to be out of the castle,” Dimitri said once Fhirdiad was barely visible behind them. Almost fourteen, Dimitri looked much like his father and uncle, though his features remained soft, untouched by years and hard decisions. The parts of his hair that had burnt away in Duscur had grown back, but Dimitri seemed displeased when Rodrigue commented on it.

“I look too much like uncle like this,” he said, his voice low like a grumble, only flushing when he remembered that Rodrigue was with him. “Everyone says so.”

Rodrigue wondered who _everyone_ was. “You are not your uncle,” he said firmly. Lambert had raised his son better than that. “You look just as much your father.”

And it was true – Dimitri’s rare heartfelt smiles were big and contagious, just as his father’s. Much of his mannerisms made Rodrigue think of Patricia, but that smile was a direct copy of Lambert’s.

That afternoon’s ride wasn’t a long one. Dimitri still tired easily, though his physical injuries were gone. But it served its purpose well enough, and by the end of it Rodrigue too was smiling softly. For a moment, the persistent ache in his heart dulled.

The ride had reinvigorated him, but whether it was enough to deal with Dimitri’s stubborn uncle – well, that was a question Rodrigue wasn’t looking forward to finding an answer to.

* * *

“He wishes to hold a _what_?”

Cornelia shrugged her shoulders with the air of someone that couldn’t care less what Rodrigue thought about the matter. “The Regent decreed a ball. Surely you must have been to one yourself; wasn’t there a small one for the late king’s second wedding?”

“There was,” Rodrigue allowed.

“Is there also not a ball each year held for Faerghus’ Founding Day?”

Oh. Rodrigue’s heart nearly stopped at the mention. He had forgotten—

“The preparations for it usually begin months before. I was under the impression that under the current circumstances, it would be prudent to not hold it this year.” He thought some more, glancing down at his rapidly cooling tea. Chamomile. “Or at least postpone it until His young Highness’ birthday – his survival is worth honoring.”

Cornelia leaned back on the cushioned sofa and tipped her head as though about to laugh at him in the face. Instead, she studied him with narrow eyes and thin-lipped smile. “Goodness, you men are so stubborn! No wonder nothing ever gets done in this kingdom.”

Rodrigue covered the sting of her words by taking a sip of the tea, lukewarm as it was by now. He had expected to find Rufus in the royal parlor, but he was met with Cornelia instead. She had yet to say where Rufus was and what he was doing, and while her companionship had once been a precious thing, Rodrigue now felt discomforted in her presence.

“The country needs support from the crown, not extravagant parties right now,” he said. His eyes bore into the golden earrings in Cornelia’s ears. He hadn’t seen her wear them previously, and he could not begin to guess where she had made the money to get them.

She had always had a taste for pretty things, but she had never been outright vain. But in the recent years… and recent weeks… she almost seemed a different person.

He had at first attributed her changes to the tragedy that had befallen the Arnim family in the Empire during the first long months of Sreng campaign in north, but now he wondered if that was all there was to it. She had never gotten back to her old self, not in the slightest. Almost as though she had forgotten all that had made her Cornelia Arnim once.

Her behavior now didn’t ease his worry. She cocked her head and eyed him coldly, so unlike the friend she had once been to him – the friend he had discussed faith with, and who had made him smile and whom he had gotten to smile on the occasion as well. Lambert had once joked that perhaps he should marry her if he was so taken with her, but Rodrigue had bristled at the joke and sworn off marrying ever again.

(Besides, he had been sleeping with Rufus at the time. An arrangement he knew well Rufus wasn’t exclusively sticking to, but Rodrigue hadn’t strayed. His heart was still taken with the same person as it had always been, anyhow.)

Cornelia said, “If it were you in the reins, we would still be wasting our time looking into something that already has an answer to, my lord.” Her smile remained, as poisonous as a belladonna plant. “His Highness and the rest of us would like to move on.”

Was this how his life was going to be? Sassy backtalk from once-friends and one remaining son? Rodrigue sighed, suddenly weary. Any reinvigorating effect from the ride with Dimitri trickled away. “Your impatience has doomed us all from finding the truth.”

“Open your eyes, my dear lord,” Cornelia said and flicked her hair back, long and pretty and the color of a ripe peach. “The Regent has punished those in the wrong already. There is nothing to be done but move onward and have some fun while we’re at it. Life’s not meant to be such a dreary business as you’re making it out to be.”

They conversed for a while longer, but the results were the same as they would have been if Rodrigue spent the time hitting his head against a stone wall.

* * *

He managed to meet with Rufus later that evening in the end, and even before joining him Rodrigue already knew it was going to be a difficult time. Rufus had summoned him to what had once been Lambert’s personal chamber, which the older Blaiddyd had claimed to himself along with the regency.

Rodrigue hadn’t been there since the one night he had Lambert all to himself. That was the problem of it, but Rodrigue tried to steel himself for the task. Before his love, before his heartbreak, duty marched on, and he must follow it.

Rufus made it difficult. He always had, and now was no different.

“Rodrigue,” the king regent greeted him without rising from where he sat around a small pinewood table. For most part, the chamber’s decorations had all been changed, but the wide bed remained the same. Rodrigue didn’t look in its direction as he gave a polite bow after closing the door behind him.

Dealing with Rufus always required closed doors.

“Join me,” Rufus continued, gesturing to the small table meant for two. It wasn’t the one Lambert had invited him to join for conversation of political nature, and perhaps that was for the better. Rufus’ hand closed around the neck of a wine bottle, and he filled a glass on the table. He had another in front of him, already filled with red wine. Rufus smiled, pleased with either himself or the drink. “It’s new, just fresh from a barrel.”

Rodrigue sat down on the seat gestured to him, beside the king regent and his back toward the bed and the memories he had been careful to not think about. He forced himself to smile and give a nod that could pass as a short bow. “Expensive taste as ever, Your Highness.”

Rufus was handsome that night, dressed in the royal colors of House Blaiddyd: white, blue, and a smidge of gold that Rufus had always been particularly fond of. He had never grown facial hair, not in the same manner as Lambert, but a thin trail of hair adorned his jawline now. A sure sign of a few missed days of shaving.

“Who would ever settle for anything less than the best?” Rufus asked with a raised eyebrow. If nothing else, he kept them trimmed and proper. They were more pleasant to the eye than his smile, which widened with his next words. “I suppose you have,” he said, with pretend reluctance to his tone, “in the years past. How unfortunate.”

It had taken surprisingly long for Rufus to begin prodding at the history between them, the heartache it had inflicted, but for it to happen was no surprise itself. Rodrigue took a sip from his glass, the sweet taste of Gautier ice wine stirring his wits once more. “You are the last person that would be sorry for that, I should think,” Rodrigue said, peering at Rufus over his glass. “You quite enjoyed yourself.”

“I did.” Rufus’ smile turned indulgent, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with tease as they often had when he had been in his twenties still. His hand reached out to touch Rodrigue’s shoulder, where it gave a firm squeeze. “I would like to enjoy myself some more… for old times’ sake. And for easy sleep.”

Lambert’s bed – fit for a king, clothed like one as well – was behind them. Rodrigue’s face flushed with anger. “Have you no shame?” he questioned through his teeth. “This was once His Majesty’s—"

“And once it was our father’s chamber,” Rufus declared, as though that fixed the wrongness in his less than subtle implications. “My father lay with my mother here plenty of times and thinking of it will do nothing but sour the intended purpose of the bed.”

Rodrigue set down the glass, half emptied. Rufus’ hand moved from his shoulder to brush hair away from Rodrigue’s cheek. It was shorter than it had been when he had lain with Rufus last, before Sreng. The backs of Rufus’ fingers dragged on his cheek until strands of dark hair were tucked behind an ear. Rufus’ voice was low, as honeyed as it ever got, “I know you’ve lain with my brother in that bed, as well.”

That he had laid his glass down was a blessing, for the way he clenched his fingers at Rufus’ words might have had it crack, and that would have been a shame. The glasswork was beautiful. Had he been a Blaiddyd, he would have shattered it to pieces.

“Pardon me?” he said, incredulous as he stared at the king regent smiling like the cat that got the milk. Rodrigue clenched his jaw in response, and he pulled away from the touch of Rufus’ fingers. “For a jest, this is in poor taste, even for you… Your Highness.”

His heart ached from the denial, but it was a truth he could not allow to exist in other people’s minds.

Rufus’ grey eyes were warm with glee, and his lips smiled relentlessly.

“For something you had wanted for so long, you are so eager to deny it,” he observed, and amusement made his voice more familiar than Rodrigue would have liked.

Rufus’ fingers returned to Rodrigue’s hair, pinching a curl of hair between them as if curious for the feeling. Rodrigue had washed after the ride with Dimitri, and so it must have been soft to the touch. Rodrigue cared not, but Rufus seemed pleased.

“Did you find it lacking, then?” Rufus asked, eyelids drooping as he peered at him. Much like a southern viper that had found the next victim to warm its belly. “Did my dear brother not please you as he had you in his bed?”

Rodrigue was far from being the impulsive seventeen-year-old that had broken Rufus’ nose for speaking ill of his brother behind his back, but for a moment – for one, prolonged moment – he was struck with the urge to break that nose once more. But he was not seventeen. What he was: weary of this man, worn out from his previous engagement with Cornelia, and heart trodden and bruised from grief that had yet to let up even as the world moved on.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue started tightly, “who does this kind of talk benefit? You are not doing anyone favors by speaking ill of your late brother and making up lies—”

“Have some more wine, Rodrigue,” Rufus interrupted him, pleasant and unaffected in the face of Rodrigue’s anger. He poured wine until Rodrigue’s glass was full again. “You look like you need a drink.”

He wasn’t wrong, but he was the last person Rodrigue should share a drink with. Yet, he was the King Regent, and Rodrigue but a loyal follower of House Blaiddyd.

Stiffly, he took a long sip from his glass. The sweetness of the ice wine no longer felt good on his tongue, but still he drank until the glass was empty. By no means was it a proper way to drink wine, but Rodrigue found he cared little.

“You need not lie to me, you know,” Rufus said as Rodrigue drank, swirling his own glass in his hand as he finally gave Rodrigue much needed space. “Your demeanor when you bid Lambert farewell… well, either he had fucked you or you had been given a third child. I know which is more likely of these options.”

The damned man knew Rodrigue too well, could _still_ read into him so easily even after all these years and distance between them. It made Rodrigue angry at himself. He had grown stronger at heart, but that strength was of no use with neither Cornelia nor Rufus. They both exhausted him and strained his nerves.

(Exhausted and strained was no state to speak to Felix in, either; so Rodrigue kept putting off having a true conversation with Felix about what had occurred. Besides, Felix should have his time with Dimitri be as peaceful as possible. Both of them needed it.)

“You must be hurting,” Rufus said, feigning sympathy while not looking very sorry for it. He fiddled with his ponytail, as golden and well-maintained as ever, but Rodrigue looked at his face instead. He didn’t remember how Rufus’ hair felt between his fingers anymore, and he was glad for it.

Rufus looked back at him. “Why not enjoy yourself to forget all about it, even if just for one night, Rodrigue? It worked well before.”

“If this is what you wished to discuss with me,” Rodrigue said, “then I might as well leave. I was under the impression we were to discuss matters of the realm. And your ball.”

Rufus liked to hurt others, but Rodrigue was done entertaining him – had been done for a while, now. And so he stood, his back still toward the bed that had seen too much of his heart’s secret pleasures. “I bid you a good night—”

Rufus’ fingers wrapped around his wrist in a heartbeat. Crestless man or not, his grip was strong and his eyes serious as they peered up at Rodrigue.

“Sit down, little Fraldarius,” he said. The nickname that had once been precious now reeked of intent to humiliate. Rufus’ smile vanished as he frowned up at Rodrigue, an unsettling and angry expression on such a handsome face, ruined only by the nose. “Whatever it is you wish to discuss, we can talk of it over dinner. Sit down.”

Rodrigue sat down.

* * *

By the time they were done, it was already late. Yet, when he peeked into the private dining hall where Lambert had often eaten with his family, he found that Dimitri, Felix, and the boy named Dedue were still eating. Gustave, ever the loyal knight, stood watch over them, his own portion of food untouched.

Dimitri, who had been deep in conversation with Dedue, noticed him eventually, and his smile remained. Felix, across from the prince, scowled, arms crossed over his chest. His cutlery had been placed neatly on his plate to indicate he was finished. On the plate, half-eaten vegetables remained. Rodrigue furrowed his brow at that.

It was Dimitri who addressed him first. “Lord Rodrigue,” he said, smiling awkwardly but politely after glancing at Felix. “Have you eaten? We were just finishing up. It took a while to convince Dedue to eat with us, that’s why we’re dining late…”

“Oh, no. I have already eaten, Your Highness.” Rodrigue’s smile felt tight on his lips, and he was struck with a need for more wine. Rufus had that effect. “Your uncle, the Regent, requested my presence.”

Dimitri’s expression faltered, and his eyes fell from meeting Rodrigue’s. “Oh. I see.”

“Has your uncle visited you?” Rodrigue asked, though he knew the question to be in vain. Rufus was at best indifferent towards his nephew; at worst, he abhorred the poor boy’s existence. Rodrigue had hoped Rufus would have the sense to not carry his grudges to the next generation, but years had crumbled those hopes.

When Dimitri shook his head, Rodrigue wasn’t surprised.

“Felix, your vegetables,” he said as he sat down. Felix scowled harder, hands unmoving on his lap. He had always been stubborn about this, but recently much more so – Rodrigue sighed just thinking about it. His head and heart throbbed enough from Rufus’ company, so he did not repeat the words.

By the end of the meal, though, Felix’s plate was emptier than Dimitri’s.

* * *

“Little Fraldarius,” Rufus’ sing-song voice came up from behind his back, startling Rodrigue nearly out of his skin. “What’re you up to?”

As any eight-year-old child’s, Rodrigue’s first reaction was to slam the book shut and try to hide it from Rufus’ view. He had thought he’d be safe in the most secluded corner of the castle gardens, but he should have known there was no place where the older boy wouldn’t find him.

At least he wasn’t Rodrigue’s lord father… but even so, Rodrigue hid the book beneath his arms and straightened his back, straight and rigid as a spear. Rufus slid into the bench beside him but kept himself a respectable distance away.

Rodrigue’s shoulders relaxed, but he still dipped his gaze, shy and demure as he still was at this age. The smile was stiff on his face as he mumbled, “Nothing much.”

It was summer, and Rufus’ 13th birthday was coming around in a few weeks. The sun lit the garden bright and shimmering, and Rodrigue felt too warm beneath his tunic as he evaded Rufus’ eyes. Embarrassment burned more than the sun, even though he hadn’t been doing anything especially wrong.

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Rufus said, his voice shaking with his snicker. His fingers tapped at Rodrigue’s arm pressed over the book cover. “You were reading something. Loog and Kyphon again?”

Rodrigue’s face flushed, and he didn’t need to look aside to know Rufus was smiling. “Thought so. You’re painfully obvious, little Fraldarius.”

“They’re good stories,” Rodrigue murmured in his defense. “Even father likes them.”

“Never said they weren’t,” Rufus said. Rodrigue dared to peek at him then, and Rufus’ smile widened at that. Lambert smiled bigger and wider than Rufus, but it was a good, familiar smile regardless. “I’ve heard them plenty of times before, you know. Probably more stories than you’ve been told, little Fraldarius.”

Rodrigue’s hold around the book eased when it was obvious Rufus wasn’t there to find the book that had gone missing from the castle library. “I’ve read a lot,” Rodrigue said, and inched just a bit closer to Lambert’s older brother, who often treated him as a younger brother, too. “What other stories do you know, Ruf—Your Highness?”

Wind ruffled at Rufus’ already tousled hair, and Rufus tucked some of it behind his ear as he grinned. His voice went low, as it always did when he began a story, often a scary one, with the intent to scare either Lambert or Rodrigue (or both). “I’ve got no doubt you’ve heard the popular tales already. But have you ever heard of the mercenary that saved Kyphon on numerous occasions?”

Rodrigue shook his head, eyes a little wider. Mercenaries didn’t often feature in the chivalric tales he’d heard of. When they did, they were tricksters and men of no honor, cheating knights out of their money with false promises.

Rufus clearly noticed his interest. When he reached out to pat Rodrigue’s head, Rodrigue didn’t flinch. “Want me to tell you all about it?”

Rodrigue nodded. He had always liked Rufus’ narration, even though adults often complained he was all over the place when it came to important events and the characters and people that should have mattered. Lambert and Rodrigue had spent many nights listening to Rufus recount stories, often bloodier and more romantic than what the adults and novels made them out to be.

(Considering Faerghan fairy and chivalric tales, this was saying quite a lot.)

“Commoner stories,” Rufus had once explained vaguely, never saying just how he got his hands on them. Later Rodrigue would discover that Rufus had friends among the servants and their children, and it all clicked together then.

But for the moment, Rufus’ secret well of stories was as mysterious as the stories themselves.

“Yes,” Rodrigue admitted as he set the book aside and turned his attention fully to the prince, eyes wide and eager. “Please, tell me.”

“You’re too polite to be my brother’s friend,” Rufus snorted, but the words were amused and held no mockery. His fingers stroked Rodrigue’s head for a moment longer before they pulled away, going to tap at his own chin thoughtfully. “Where to begin…”

It was a warm summer day, and through the leaves of the bushes and thin trees, the sun touched them. A pleasant thing to accompany a pleasant (but bloody) story. Rufus tried to not grin his way through the thing, but his lips slipped and smiled at most inappropriate times through his retelling, revealing what Rufus found most amusing of it.

The gist of it was: Kyphon was not a man of many friends, despite how charismatic some stories made him out to be. (Save for the one where he wedded a witch and got his entire bloodline cursed, but that was an ill-spirited story Rodrigue didn’t care for.)

But there was one person outside Loog and Pan that Kyphon came to trust, despite their different paths in life. A nameless mercenary he was, his name long forgotten by the lips of people.

“They shared a bed every now and then, some say,” Rufus explained, smiling wickedly. At this point, it was not a cruel smile, only the mischievous, gap-toothed grin of a growing boy.

Rodrigue stared at him. “Like Lambert and I do?”

Rufus started laughing for some unimaginable reason. Rodrigue frowned, confused about the sudden burst, and it was only moments later that Rufus could manage through a wheezing cough, “Not… quite the same way.”

Rodrigue wondered what that was supposed to mean, but Rufus only shrugged and said he’d know in due time.

The story went on to claim that the mercenary had saved Kyphon from trouble many times: bandits were plenty, and the war against the Empire young. One story detailed how the mercenary saved Kyphon’s life from a group of hired assassins. Had the mercenary not shown up when he did, Loog would have lost a dear ally. As it were, Kyphon’s life was spared, but his long and luscious hair was ruined.

Not that such a thing mattered in the bigger picture, but still. A pity, Rufus called it.

The mercenary would not linger, but he and Kyphon crossed paths often enough since then. For a few coins of gold and a warm place to sleep, the man was content enough to assist Kyphon with Loog’s business.

“I do it for you, friend,” the mercenary told Kyphon when asked. “Not for any king or emperor.”

“Me, and gold,” Kyphon was said to have answered, a rare smile playing on his lips.

The mercenary laughed at that. “Gold is everyone’s master, but you are a friend to few. Trust me when I say it matters a great deal to me.”

Rodrigue wanted to ask how people knew of this event if the mercenary and Kyphon were left as alone as the story suggested, but he stayed silent instead. There was something about Rufus when he was telling stories that made Rodrigue want to listen carefully and observe the lively mannerisms of the oldest Blaiddyd prince.

“They shared many things, so goes the story,” Rufus said, huffing some stray strands of hair away from his eyes. “Loog’s the one people talk about most often, but the mercenary kept him company plenty, too. Fought many battles at his side. Just like you and I will.”

“You and me?”

“To protect Lambert’s dumb butt, of course.”

Rodrigue pursed his lips. “Do I have to pay you for it?”

Rufus nearly doubled over from cackling so hard, his shoulders shaking to the point where Rodrigue had to push himself farther away. Eventually, Rufus’ laughter calmed and he wiped the corners of his eyes as he said, “If I figure something that you can pay me with, little Fraldarius.”

What Rufus never told Rodrigue was that the mercenary of those stories was eventually executed by Kyphon. War was cruel, the goddess crueler, and with eyes filled with rage and tears Kyphon brought the Sword of Moralta down to behead the person he had once considered a friend.

* * *

The Founding Day passed, and so did Lambert’s birthday. The month before was Rodrigue’s birthday, but he hadn’t had the taste to celebrate it despite the insistency of many minor lords of his territory. Many gifted him with wine or ale, neither of which tasted right on his tongue right then.

Count Rowe had been particularly troublesome over the past weeks, speaking on behalf of Lonato Gaspard on the justice that needed to be brought to the Cassandra of House Charon. So he claimed, at least, but the Rowe-Charon relationship had always been strained and Rowe’s intentions weren’t exactly subtle. The motive was the same as ever with these lordlings: power. Rodrigue grew weary of hearing of their petulant skirmishes.

If there was anything good about the ball Rufus had been so insistent on holding, it was that it brought back a vague sense of normalcy among the nobles for the time being. Even if holding it on the day of the late king’s birthday felt a little too much.

“It isn’t my fault he was born on the damned day,” Rufus had said as he had poured more wine for Rodrigue. No servants had accompanied their dinner, for reasons that never came to fruition. Thinking back on it, Rodrigue wondered just how easy Rufus imagined he was.

Still, there was good in it – or so Rodrigue told himself throughout the whole thing. He stayed off the dance floor and kept an eye on the regent and his inner circle. Felix was off somewhere, but Rodrigue knew him well enough to guess where he’d find his son should the need arise. Felix had never really liked the formal events; he was just like Glenn in that way. The difference was that Felix would have to learn to tolerate them and the people attending them.

Rodrigue could not find it in himself to search Felix out to chastise him right then, though. The ball was – it was too joyful of an occasion, given the weight that had settled in Rodrigue’s chest since Lambert and Glenn’s passing. Felix had perhaps made the better choice out of them by abandoning the ballroom as soon as the dancing began, but Rodrigue had no such option at hand.

Dimitri disappeared soon enough as well, with the boy named Dedue, and that too was for the best. The previous year Dimitri had been by Lambert’s side, both smiling and Glenn standing just off to the side when Rodrigue and Felix came to greet them…

The memories were hard to bear but bear them he must. Antoine’s company eased the effort somewhat, if only because he had to distract his friend from paying too close attention to the king regent, with whom the Gautier shared a… rocky relationship. To this day, Rodrigue had no idea what had happened between them to ruin their once close friendship so.

Antoine’s son – the younger and the heir; Miklan had been left in Gautier – was also around. Making himself known in a manner that pained Rodrigue, for it reminded him of a man he’d once thought he knew well. Ingrid had come with her father, both dressed in all black with faint teal accents to their clothing.

They looked misplaced amid the joy of celebration, in much the same way Rodrigue felt himself be.

But the night passed, and they all survived, notwithstanding bruised hearts and aching eyes and all their other pains. It was a night Rodrigue was more than glad to escape and forget.

Only a fool would ignore the cracks that had begun to form all around them, but as it stood, Fhirdiad was full of fools that day.

The night passed, and Faerghus welcomed a new day with the sunrise’s bleeding reds and oranges.

* * *

Dimitri turned fourteen a month later, with much more subdued celebration.

“I don’t mind,” Dimitri said to Rodrigue when they talked about Rufus’ obvious neglect of it. The prince smiled, a subdued little thing that made for a rather saddening sight. “I do not enjoy big events. If anything, my uncle did me a favor.”

Perhaps it was for the best. The wounds were still raw as they all experienced events without Lambert for the first time. Days continued to be a struggle, some worse than others.

He could not fault Dimitri for wishing a break from being probed at with numerous stares and insincere smiles.

He would protect Dimitri for as long as he could. With his life, if he must.

* * *

Rufus had no interest in ruling, that much became apparent even to those who had thought kindly of the late king’s brother. Council meetings were of little importance to him, and Cornelia attended them in his stead more often than not. Many of the nobles muttered at this, but none directly opposed it as most still remembered Cornelia as the person that saved Faerghus from the grasp of the plague that had taken so many loved ones even from nobles.

Amid the commoners, it had been even worse. Rodrigue remembered well the wails of despair from the villages he had passed on his way to Fhirdiad back then.

Cornelia no longer spoke to the commoners, but she had been popular for a time, hailed as a new saint sent by the goddess Sothis. For a time, Rodrigue had nearly believed it himself, as had Lambert when he took the mage into his court.

She was so different from those days, and the realization that people changed made Rodrigue’s heart ache. He himself had changed; at the hands of his father, by Rufus, by his wife, and by his sons. Long gone was the soft-hearted and soft-eyed boy of old times.

Around the council table sat other lords. Even Antoine had come for this one, although he preferred the cold of Gautier tundra to the chill of Fhirdiad. He still begrudged Rodrigue for his choice to support Rufus, but Rodrigue was glad to see that it hadn’t done too much harm to their friendship otherwise.

If anything, the way Antoine glanced at him suggested that he was worried about him. Rodrigue could not conjure up a reason as to _why_. His headache was mild at worst, and he had no liquor in front of him. Even the pallid shade of his face could be attributed to Faerghus’ general weather conditions.

By the time Cornelia started speaking, Rodrigue’s worst worry was Rufus.

By the end of the council meeting, Cornelia joined Rufus in the list of Rodrigue’s most prominent worries, and his headache threatened to slip into migraine territory.

Many issues had been brought up during the council meeting – no less than the potential threat of a new famine breaking out in Galatea territory as bandits had taken up arms in greater numbers – and yet Cornelia had treated all of them same: with indifference ill-suited to a holy woman, and a change of topic to more pleasant waters.

If nothing else, Cornelia was a master at steering a conversation. Always had been, even back in her kinder and more religious days.

It frustrated Rodrigue, but he pursed his lips and settled on saving this fight for another day. Kyril of House Charon had made tentative promises with Count Galatea, and Rodrigue too still had his promises to Hans to fulfill. But the rising of bandits was a problem that would soon begin to fester across the country, he knew. It was inevitable, given how off-balance the Kingdom was.

Again, on his way to Fhirdiad for the council meeting, he had seen travelers with all their meager possessions. A mother with a dead child in her arms, tears frozen on her cheeks. Winter would soon give way to spring and a new year, but only misery lay ahead.

It worried him that Cornelia no longer cared.

* * *

He had dinner with Rufus that night, as well. As the current leaders of their houses, it wasn’t unexpected: from the days of Loog and Kyphon, Houses Blaiddyd and Fraldarius had been there for one another in friendship and in battle. (Sometimes that friendship was the most tumultuous battle.)

This time the pouring of wine waited until after they both had warm meals before them, but as soon as it was done, the servants were waved off again. Rufus wanted privacy for this – or he _wanted_ the servants to think there was need for it. Rodrigue clenched his jaw to not curse the man to his face.

The meal was richer than it had been previously, spiced with leaves and peppers from southern Fódlan and the sauces thick and tasty. By all standards, delicious, but Rodrigue found he had little hunger for it. As mild and tasteless as some of the food Faerghus offered her children was, it was familiar and safe.

Not to mention, it wasn’t them that needed the food the most.

When the servants were gone, Rufus spoke to him the first time directly that night. “Eat up. You look like a man fasting, and I can’t bear it.”

Again, they ate in Lambert’s chamber instead of a proper dining hall. Perhaps that was why Rodrigue found he had little appetite for the food set on the table. _Foolish_. The room had not smelt like Lambert for months now. Most of the late king’s property had been looked through and tossed away – by Rufus’ order.

There was little that remained of Lambert in the chamber, save for the bed. Thinking of it still brought too much ache, and so Rodrigue ignored the memories lurking just below the surface.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he said mildly. Even so, he took a sip of wine before he could even begin to stomach the food before him on the plate. It had been a long day, and the good mood from the morning ride with Dimitri, the true heir to Lambert’s throne and ideals, had long since dimmed. But even so, duty called him with Rufus’ voice, and he would answer it.

Stories had never told how unpleasant it was to follow one’s duty at times.

“Not very talkative today, are you, little Fraldarius?” Rufus questioned him as moments passed without either one speaking. He was beside Rodrigue, knee almost touching his below the pinewood table. Rufus smiled as he went on, “Here I thought you would have something to complain about, seeing how you attended council earlier.”

“We have outgrown that nickname, Your Highness.” Rodrigue took another sip. The drink went down with some difficulty, burning down his throat. A bite of roasted chicken followed it more easily. “If I voiced my complaints, would you take them to heart?”

Rufus laughed at that: a rumbling sound that was just a pitch or two too low to match Lambert’s. A familiar thing that once would have eased Rodrigue’s heart – once, but that time was long gone.

“Good question,” Rufus admitted. “It depends entirely on the cause of the complaint. Let’s say you were to complain about the lack of a bed companion… I might lend an ear and more.” Grey eyes peered at Rodrigue then, no flicker of remorse in them – nor the rest of his face. “Your comfort means the most to me, Rodrigue.”

It was the kind of thing Lambert would have said with almost painful sincerity, and Rodrigue’s chest tightened at the thought of it.

From Rufus, the words sounded wrong and discomforting.

“Must you behave this way?” Rodrigue asked, letting go of the fork and knife as he frowned at Rufus. What appetite he had had was now gone. “We have had this conversation before, Your Highness.”

“And my offer still stands,” Rufus said with an easy shrug of his shoulders, cradling his cup of wine like a cherished thing. “Best medicine for grief is to vent it out, wouldn’t you say?”

 _As if you understand grief_ , Rodrigue thought but held his tongue. A Fraldarius waits until the time is right, a lesson taught both by Faerghan politics and the previous Duke Fraldarius.

Patience was the key to most things, but by the goddess, Rufus was so good at testing his.

* * *

Many years ago, Rodrigue had woken in Rufus’ chamber more often than in the guest chamber assigned and prepared for Duke Fraldarius. Often he had woken to long, hardly calloused fingers dancing down his bare back or the nape of his neck. Sometimes it was lips between his shoulder blades that kissed him awake.

Rufus was always at his tenderest when he didn’t say a word, but it was only these mornings when Rufus’ touch felt genuinely comforting. When Rodrigue wasn’t quite conscious yet and when Rufus’ bitter pettiness had yet to wake for a new day.

Rodrigue was a young duke back then, a recent widower without permission to grieve as his king’s grief took precedence. He would never resent Lambert for it; his own feelings hardly mattered in the bigger picture of things, so he told himself.

And yet he still found himself in Rufus’ arms, being taken care of in what was potentially the worst manner of grieving possible. But affection was affection, regardless of who it came from, and at the time Rodrigue had welcomed it while feeling terrible about it afterwards.

Rufus was like a night spent on drinking: it felt good for the moment, but the regret and the hangover would inevitably follow. Usually it came after Rodrigue had gathered himself and left Rufus’ chamber to join Lambert for a late breakfast or early lunch. Sometimes he ate with Rufus in the bed, though the horrible heartsick part of him always yearned for Lambert’s company then.

Rufus would sometimes feed him those times. One spoonful of something, and then he would press his lips on Rodrigue’s, insistent and playful and horribly possessive. _Mine_ , those kisses seemed to say, and Rodrigue couldn’t push himself away from them.

And if Rufus then pushed him down on the mattress and had his way with him again, Rodrigue didn’t say no.

He had no wedding vows or honor to break. The only thing he had left to break was his own heart.

* * *

The morning after dining with Rufus and the council meeting, Rodrigue woke with a groggy, feverish feeling. At first he was inclined to blame it on the lack of sleep he had had of late – rarely had he seen a good night’s sleep since he learned of Lambert’s passing, after all. But as the day went on, he only felt sicker instead of better, and even Felix and Dimitri noted this.

“Rodrigue,” Dimitri was the one to speak as he and Felix finished their sparring session. It had been a tense one – Felix seemed upset with Dimitri somehow. Rodrigue couldn’t begin to fathom the reason, not with the dizzying, disorienting feeling fogging his head.

Dimitri looked at him with unconcealed concern. “Are you well?”

Rodrigue smiled a little, though it strained him to do so. The training grounds were empty, but his ears buzzed, as though he were in the middle of a crowd. The air was cold and winter showed no sign of passing, yet he felt too warm. “You needn’t worry for me, Your Highness. A little weary, that is all.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed, but mostly he seemed far more interested in the handle of his practice sword than Rodrigue. And frowning at Dimitri. Rodrigue really ought to ask Felix about that.

Gustave, who had been deep in thought and especially miserable of late, put his hand on Rodrigue’s shoulder. The lines surrounding his eyes were deep, and Rodrigue knew well he himself mirrored the look. “You have been overworking yourself, Lord Rodrigue.”

“The Regent is a tiresome person,” Rodrigue said, his voice as faint as his smile. “I will rest when he ceases to worry me.”

Which would not be until the day either he or Rufus died. Unfortunately, Rodrigue could not afford either of those scenarios for several years yet, no matter how close to aneurysm he felt these days.

Dimitri furrowed his brows at that. “My uncle? What is he doing that causes you to worry?”

 _What doesn’t he do,_ Rodrigue thought. Instead of uttering it aloud, he placed a gloved hand in Dimitri’s hair and patted it affectionately. “You needn’t worry, Your Highness. I believe you and Felix have a tutoring session to attend to, do you not? That should be your concern for the time being.”

He glanced at Gustave to confirm this, and the knight gave a severe, albeit slightly halting, nod.

“Aren’t the knights coming to spar soon?” Felix piped up. He didn’t look at Rodrigue; instead, his eyes stayed on Dimitri. “I’d rather stay and watch.”

The prince smiled awkwardly as he said, “Felix, we shouldn’t be a bother…”

Felix’s grip on his practice sword tightened, as did the expression on his face. Rodrigue was once more reminded of the previous duke, who had been long since buried in Castle Fraldarius’ graveyard. The look on Felix’s same was the one Rodrigue’s father had worn whenever he was seconds away from snapping at Rodrigue for whatever folly he had committed that time.

Rodrigue looked away, nauseous and cold sweat clinging to his neck.

He was supposed to have rid himself of the past fears already, and yet…

(Whoever said that adults outgrew childhood miseries had clearly never grown to be an adult.)

* * *

The possibility of poison did not occur to him until he was already stuck in bed and with Cornelia’s fingers stroking through his hair.

“You men are all the same,” she said to him when she came to his bedside. Her voice wasn’t as indifferent as it had been recently when she continued, “Overworking yourself to the brink of death… and for what? Honor?”

“Duty,” he rasped. Speaking was difficult; his throat was dry and he himself dehydrated.

Cornelia looked at him, her mouth unsmiling as she settled her hand in his hair. It wasn’t the kindest of touches, and yet it reminded Rodrigue of his late mother. “Duty to whom? The Regent will grieve, should you pass away.”

Rodrigue laughed hoarsely at that, though it hurt. “I would be surprised if that were so.”

“You are forgetting who your allies are, my good lord.” The sarcastic note in her voice struck Rodrigue, but he was much too tired to remark on it. She wasn’t done speaking, in any case. “You’re much too hung up on the past, while His Highness, the Regent, is looking to the future. A little bit of optimism would help you and your son a lot, wouldn’t you say?”

The mention of Felix was odd. Why would she bring him up?

Rodrigue was tired. Cornelia’s fingertips brushed against his scalp as she said, “You have a choice to make, my lord.”

He wished he were asleep. He words were difficult to grasp, and he missed Lambert’s hand in his. Warm and calloused it had been as he had held Rodrigue’s hand at one of Garreg Mach’s infirmaries.

“A choice?” he asked, curling his fingers. They were stiff and moving them was as arduous as handling a steel sword. Glenn had made it seem easy. He could swirl a blade for hours, or so watching him play with one had felt like. His grandfather had loved watching him practice, when Glenn had been littler but just as talented.

 _The Fraldarius line skipped a generation,_ he had said, completely ignoring Theo’s existence as he was wont to do during those days, _but it seems it has returned at last._ Even though Glenn had had no Crest, Rodrigue’s father had always been fond of him.

Unlike his grandfather, however, Glenn had been pure of heart, even if his tongue was made of the same fierce thing as his grandfather’s.

Cornelia’s fingers tugged at his tangled hair, and Rodrigue’s eyes opened. He hadn’t noticed he had closed them. Mint green eyes studied him, severe and distant. If glaciers had been green, Cornelia’s eyes would have matched them perfectly. “Agony of the past or the pleasure of the present,” she said. “Those are your options, my lord. Serve and look away, and you will be happier for it.”

 _Serve and look away_ , she said.

The words would ring in his ears and in his dreams long after she had gone. When he woke, he would notice the cup of medicine she had left for him on the nightstand.

_You will be happier for it._

* * *

He left her medicine untouched. This displeased Cornelia, but she always left a new cup for him each day after he confirmed that he would only ever follow his duty.

“Stubborn man,” she said, sniffing in annoyance. “You know not what your duty is.”

 _Duty is where my heart is,_ he thought after she left yet again. His mind was becoming clearer, bit by bit. _With Lambert, as always._

* * *

The thought of poison returned to him when he was already on his way back to Fraldarius with Felix. It had been but a flicker of a thought during his bedrest, but now he pondered it more as he absently rubbed at his wrist through the glove. His heartbeat was still a little too accelerated from its usual pace, but it no longer rung in his ears like thunder.

Something about the look on Cornelia’s face when he had returned to the council room the sixth day after the start of his bedrest bothered him. She hadn’t been happy – perhaps unhappiness had been her prevalent mood for years now, but he couldn’t say for sure – but neither had she stopped him from attending.

It could have been a sudden illness, but very rarely had Rodrigue been that ill… at least if he hadn’t strained himself with faith magic. A double-edged sword, faith was, and Rodrigue had never been particularly skilled with swords. There was certain irony to it that Rodrigue was sure Rufus would have enjoyed mocking him for.

If it were poison, it must have been through food or drink. Most nights during his stay in Fhirdiad, save for the ones he had spent stuck in the guest chamber, he ate with the king regent. Sometimes with the rest of the court.

The night before his symptoms had showed, it had been Rufus.

Before Rodrigue’s thoughts could reach any sort of conclusion as to what had happened, the carriage came to a sudden halt. Horses whinnied in alarm, and Rodrigue heard a loud curse from one of the knights that had accompanied the duke and his son to the capital and were now returning to Fraldarius with them.

Felix, too, had started at the sudden stop, his bleary eyes looking outside the window at the same time as Rodrigue leaned to look.

“Bandits,” Felix said.

“So it would seem,” Rodrigue agreed, lips pursed thin. He only had a hunter’s knife in his coat’s inner breast pocket, and Felix kept a dagger strapped to his waist as a pretend sword. Neither was useful in a large-scale fight, though Rodrigue had one advantage.

Which was why he forced the carriage door open, looking at Felix over his shoulder and telling him to stay put, before hopping off. The situation looked more chaotic now than from the narrow carriage window, as there were more bandits than Rodrigue had seen. At least two per knight, and by the way they swung their axes, not unskilled.

Rodrigue raised his arm above his head and snapped his fingers. Over the noise of battle, it went unheard, but the sparks of light that flashed through the cold winter air were harder to ignore as they grew into white flames and burned an attacker. Another snap, another burst of light, hot as any smith’s furnace.

Screams overtook the clash of steel, and the bandits’ – if they were ones to begin with – turned their attention to him. But Fraldarius knights were not so sloppy as to let their lord’s appearance startle them, and so they fought harder, leaping back to dodge Aura when the air glowed with the spell. It was a well-practiced dance, as most of them had been with him since Felix was but a toddler clinging to his mother’s skirts and some since before that.

But there were only so many times Aura could be cast before it started depleting the life of the caster. In Sreng, Rodrigue had been able to cast it five times. Now, it was four. Barely four, as Rodrigue wasn’t at his best, but still the fourth Aura spilt from his fingers without much trouble.

His heart pounded when it was over. The carriage door behind him creaked open, but the bandits were dead save but one his youngest knight had smartly saved for interrogation and so there was no need to stop Felix from getting out of the carriage. He would see corpses among melted snow and patches of charred ground from the carriage window regardless.

The winter wind was cold as it brushed Rodrigue’s hair.

“Their leader?” he asked the knight that held the man captive. A well-built man, with no signs of malnutrition to him, adorned with black hair that was dotted with blood and scorched from a slight brush-in with Aura. He looked up at Rodrigue’s approach, and so Rodrigue got a good look of his clean-shaven face and sharp eyes, blue as the ice crystals that decorated each of Gautier keeps in north.

He was young, Rodrigue realized. No more than eighteen years old, if even that.

“So he claims, milord,” his knight said, adjusting her grip on the man’s wrists. Her captive offered no struggle, only a scoff that twisted his lips in an oddly familiar way. Rodrigue wondered about it, but the moment passed.

“Release him,” he said. The lad had no weapon on him now, and he hadn’t fought anyone with magic. His thigh had been cut open, by the look of the blood dripping on the snow beneath his knees. There were always his hands to watch out for, but Rodrigue suspected the boy didn’t have that big a death wish.

“Are you certain, my lord?” the knight asked, stilling and not letting go yet.

“I am certain.” The knight let go of the wrists, and the boy pulled them to his chest, rubbing at where he had been held. But he didn’t attack, and the fire in his eyes dimmed a little bit.

Neither did he rush to apologize and grovel, as many others in his position would have. Rodrigue bent down to take a closer look at him. “You’re not a bandit.”

The young man said nothing, but he clenched his jaw tightly. It was as good as any admission, and Rodrigue sighed. His eyes dropped to the pouch strapped to the man’s side. It was fat with coin. No doubt the man carried it on himself for lack of trust in his comrades. _Mercenary, but not a terribly experienced one._ “Who hired you to do this?”

“Why should I tell you?” the man sneered, and again his expression struck Rodrigue as familiar, but he could not place who it reminded him of. The man spat at his feet. “You’re going to kill me either way, so why not get on with it?”

Felix hovered right behind Rodrigue, and the young man’s icy eyes shifted towards him. “Lest you want something to happen to the little future lordling there.”

Rodrigue shifted until he was exactly between the man and Felix, whose teeth ground together audibly. Rodrigue didn’t need to look to know Felix had pulled out the dagger. “I’d like to see you try—"

“Felix,” Rodrigue cut in, sharply. “Go back in the carriage. You’ll catch a cold, and we still have ways to go.”

“You can’t make me, I—”

“Felix.”

“ _—Fine._ ” He was almost fourteen, but given the last few moons, perhaps it wasn’t surprising how sour his attitude had turned. Felix slammed the carriage door shut behind him, and Rodrigue’s lips pursed thin.

“A hissy little one, isn’t he?” the mercenary said. Playing time, but for what? A flicker of quiet resignation crossed his face. “At least he has a father.”

“A breadwinner for your family, I take it.”

“Mother hasn’t been doing well.” The mercenary’s head tilted forward to hide his face from sight, but Rodrigue caught the grief there regardless. Through gritted teeth, the man ground out, “Won’t you let me go to see her, one last time, if you’re going to kill me?”

“I have no need for your life,” Rodrigue told him, “only for answers.” The knife weighed in his breast pocket, and there it would stay.

“You have answered your own questions already, my lord. We’re… were mercenaries. Don’t know who hired us, just that the job got us a lot of gold.” Strands of black hair fell over his eyes, and the man huffed out a breath in annoyance at it. He was not shy with words, and he had no reason to be if what he said was true. “Asked to kill the lordling on his way from the capital, that was what the note given to us was about.”

The knights and soldiers around them muttered indignantly at his stubborn use of _lordling_ , but Rodrigue paid no heed to them nor the word. It was only an insult if he allowed it to be, after all.

The man rubbed at his upper arm with some agitation, and Rodrigue’s eyes followed the movement. It was curious, as there was no visible injury. Yet he could not stop rubbing at it. A nervous habit, Rodrigue thought. One that made the man look like a chastised teenager or a suitor that had failed his maid’s challenge.

“What’s your name, lad?” he asked.

“What’s it to you? A dead man has no name.”

“Don’t be so fast to pass justice onto yourself. I have not said anything about executing you. I thought I said so just now.” None had died, save for the group of mercenaries. All of them less skilled than a group of hired swords ought to be, but they were mercenaries nevertheless.

The mercenary’s lips curled downwards, and he stared hard at Rodrigue for a few passing moments. Then, with an agitated sigh, he relented. “Ismael.”

A name given with great affection, Rodrigue thought. “I’ll take you to Fraldarius, Ismael,” he said. His knights and soldiers were thankfully silent, none of them taking the chance to protest. The winter wind was the only sound passing through the icy plains of Blaiddyd territory. “Your employer in Fhirdiad will not be pleased if they find out, after all.”

Ismael looked startled at that, blue eyes widening for the first time. It was a different face, but Rodrigue was reminded of Lambert somehow. It made his heart hurt. “I never said a thing about Fhirdiad, my lord.”

“Where else would you have been hired? Arianrhod is a long way from here, and your employer’s need urgent.” Rodrigue smiled wearily. No, it wasn’t Lambert the boy reminded him of. It was Glenn. “You’ll have to answer some questions, naturally, but you will be safe in Castle Fraldarius.”

“I know nothing.”

“I will be the judge of that. Now, let us be on our way. I’ll heal your wounds, but I will not let you into the carriage untied.” For Felix’s safety, more than anything.

Rodrigue stood up and was almost at his full height when it happened. Ismael, who had been about to follow him reluctantly, doubled over with a horrid scream of pain. Rodrigue dropped to his knees again, his hands on the lad in an instant.

He sensed its stench even before the tendrils of dark magic burned through Ismael’s skin and became visible. The knights around them yelped, as horrified as Rodrigue.

“Lord Rodrigue, the corpses, they—”

One glance around showed what had alerted the knights so much. Not only Ismael, but also his dead comrades were burning black and purple, the magic _crawling_ out of their skin like bugs.

 _Fuck,_ Rodrigue thought, _fuck_. Such a sight left no room for eloquent thought.

Faith magic poured through his fingertips before he could give it a second thought, his attention gone back to the young man in his arms. His black hair, coated in blood, burned with black, cold flames, and Rodrigue had to swallow before he could force away the cold disgust in his gut at the creeping, sinister thing that clearly was magic.

He pushed white magic against it, but it was to no avail. The dark magic burned cold, and it refused to die out before its time. Rodrigue felt it seep into his skin, into his bones, and he nearly let go of Ismael at that disgusting, impure sensation.

But he was a healer first and a man second, and so he held on tighter and poured healing faith magic against the corrupted reason, though his sight blurred and ears rang. Tears prickled in his eyes, but they remained unshed, and for a moment the face and body before him were both Glenn’s. 

_You mustn’t die,_ he wished to say, but the only thing he could muster through gritted teeth was a low grunt. _You mustn’t._

His arms hurt all the way to the bone, both from the white and dark magics, but it was to no avail as Ismael ceased struggling and crying all too soon.

His body burned away, as though it had never been there. Only clothes and the pouch of coin were left behind. With Ismael diminished, Rodrigue’s white magic sizzled out, and he was left weak and trembling amidst the melted snow. A feeling of wrongness remained even so, and it was so strong that Rodrigue doubled over to heave out bile.

“My lord,” the same knight that held Ismael by his wrists rubbed at Rodrigue’s back soothingly. She too was a holy knight, and so faith magic poured into him from her hand. “That foul magic…”

His heart was in his throat, pounding like war drums in Sreng. His nose hurt from the stench of burnt skin, even though the corpses had disappeared without trace. Not even bone remained. His throat constricted still, and his breaths came out as wheezes.

Faith magic wasn’t driving the dark one away, and so he gestured for her to stop and give him a moment to recollect himself.

He had sensed it before, of course.

The memory of holding Lambert’s head between his hands sent Rodrigue retching once more.

* * *

They stayed at an inn for a night before their arrival in Fraldarius. Ismael was on Rodrigue’s mind, and eating was a chore with the memory of the young man burning into nothingness so vivid on his mind. He had seen gruesome things before, but –

_It was likely to be what happened to Glenn as well._

It was one thing to imagine what could have happened to his son, and another thing to see a possible re-enactment of the event.

The longer Ismael lingered on his mind, the more Rodrigue realized that the comparison to Glenn had been correct but incomplete. There was someone else who Ismael’s face and eyes reminded him of.

Rodrigue had just lain down in his bed after late supper in a room adjacent to Felix’s when the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

 _Rufus,_ he thought, eyes snapping open. _He looked just like Rufus_. With a different hair, yes, but the face and those eyes that were so similar to Dimitri and Lambert… Ismael’s absent father couldn’t be anyone other than Rufus.

The thought made the throbbing in his arms worse, and sleep was fitful that night. When he fell asleep, he dreamed, and as he had learned… dreams were no friends to him. Either they offered something impossibly sweet or the same bitter meals as reality.

This dream was one of former. At least it started out that way.

He lay abed with Lambert once more, surrounded by furs and comfort but more important than that – Lambert’s mouth was on his, and calloused fingers stroked through his hair. Rodrigue felt alive, from the tips of his fingers to his toes, in a way he rarely had past teenage years. He understood the songs singers and bards sung of the joys of true love’s affection, then.

The kiss broke, only for Lambert’s lips to meet his again and again, much as their lances had met during their sparring sessions in times long past. This was just as thrilling, if not more so, and Rodrigue smiled giddily against the mouth of his dearest friend, the treasure of his heart.

There were few comforts in life, and Lambert was one of them.

But when he opened his eyes, it was not Lambert looking back to him but Rufus’ gleeful grey eyes. The fingers in Rodrigue’s hair no longer stroked gently; instead, they pulled.

Something must have shown on his face, for Rufus’ lips curled downwards and he asked, “Is this not what you wanted, little Fraldarius?”

“No,” Rodrigue breathed, though pain raced down his scalp and made thinking a task. “It is not.”

Rufus peered down at him, suddenly atop Rodrigue when he had been lying at his side previously. He didn’t hold Rodrigue’s wrists, but they lay limp at his sides as though they were weighed down regardless.

“All men kiss the same in the dark,” Rufus said with chastise in his tone. His eyes narrowed, but his mouth smiled. A cruel little thing, that smile, even as Rufus said the words softly. “Ask any lady – or lowborn wench – that, and they shall tell you so.”

“Wrong.” Rodrigue struggled to breathe as Rufus’ fingers grazed at his neck and his pulse. He wasn’t holding him by his throat, and yet Rodrigue’s pulse accelerated. “It was different, Rufus.”

“Am I?” Rufus’ grin showed teeth. It made him younger – Rodrigue closed his eyes to it, as he often had during intercourse between them.

When he opened his eyes again, he was awake and alone in the homely room of the inn he and his companions were staying at. His arms throbbed still, and bile rose to his throat. Whether it was the dream or the lingering presence of dark magic, he knew not. It did not much matter as he swallowed it back down and rose to face the new day.

* * *

The remaining journey to Castle Fraldarius took two thirds of the day, and it was twilight by the time Rodrigue and Felix arrived back home. Theo, Rodrigue’s younger brother and Felix’s uncle, had received the message of their arrival and was waiting for them at the courtyard.

“You look wretched,” was Theo’s greeting to him. Much more kindly, he dropped his hand into Felix’s hair and ruffled it, tousling it into a mess even when Felix protested wildly at the touch.

“Why, thank you,” Rodrigue said pleasantly, through the exhaustion and the aches that had yet to ease. They had only grown worse, to the point where ignoring them took special kind of focus. “You’re a delight to the eyes, too, Theo.”

They agreed that Theo show Felix some swordplay before suppertime, and so they went their separate ways: Theo and Felix to the training grounds and Rodrigue to the closest infirmary in the castle. It wasn’t a long journey, thankfully. A few turns from the main entrance to the castle proper and he was already at the door to one.

He was welcomed in by the elderly cleric that had taught him the basics of faith magic by her example, and not a moment too soon he was lying down on a bed, his hand ungloved and coat and shirt sleeves pulled high up to his elbow. He hadn’t noticed how hot he had been, but now he felt the sweat on his neck and the feverish ache behind his eyes.

“My lord,” she chastised him firmly, “what in the Goddess’ name have you been doing to contract something like _this_?”

It was by no means a tone one should take with their lord, but Claire had once been a village healer and village healers took no attitude from anyone, lord or not. Some of them had paid the price for it in the past, though they had always fulfilled their duty to heal and help the sick and the injured.

Considering the black veins of magic slithering up Rodrigue’s arm, what Claire had presented was a good question.

“We had some trouble on the road,” he answered honestly, straining his eyes to peer at his own arm’s condition. His lips pursed thin as Ismael returned to his mind, and his heartbeat again rang in his ears too slow and heavy. “Mercenaries. Dark magic devoured them all before they gave us any answers.”

Claire smacked her lips together, dissatisfied as she felt up his arm. Disgust crept into her voice as she spoke, and that was how Rodrigue knew she shared his sentiments: “It’s not the kind of magic I’ve ever seen in my life, my lord. Neither have you, unless Sreng was wildly different from what we heard.”

Rodrigue could not help but chuckle. It cut off as he winced at Claire’s probing. “By Sothis, I barely know myself what went on there.”

He remembered denying Rufus stiffly but firmly, and frostbitten corpses, and spears grazing at Lambert’s cloak. He remembered coming home exhausted of his magic; he remembered Felix curling in his arms the first night after his return, tiny hands curling in his nightshirt. Only slightly less exhausting time than the one he lived now.

He looked at his arm, at the blackened veins on his wrist. Faith magic did little to cure it; if anything, it had worsened it and spread the tainted magic further into the skin, black veins branching out like tree roots.

Claire _tsk’_ ed at the sight even as she rubbed her thumbs over the blackened skin. “You might’ve done more harm than good to yourself, my lord. And for a mercenary? Hardly worth it.”

“The vows of a holy knight are same as the one lords give to their king,” Rodrigue said wearily. He remembered the day he had sworn his oath before the archbishop, kneeling before her along with the rest of fellow holy knights from his year. They were no Knights of Seiros, but they were men and women of faith even so.

Besides, Ismael hadn’t been just anyone. Prince Dimitri’s cousin, albeit unrecognized and unacknowledged; Lambert’s nephew. A boy that deserved better than the lot life had given him. Yet, he was dead and gone now. Gone to where Glenn and Lambert were.

Rufus would not grieve for a boy he had probably never met. He barely grieved the people that he knew, and even that might have been giving the man too much credit.

By the time Claire was done studying his arm, dusk had already settled in outside. She had rubbed ointments on his skin, though by the way her mouth tilted downward she was not expecting it to help much.

It did ease the throbbing, at the very least and for the time being. But there were worse aches than that, and his next visit to Fhirdiad might bring the worst ones yet.

But duty was duty, and there was much left to uncover. At least Rodrigue had an inkling as to where to begin next, no matter how unpleasant it was.

* * *

Ingrid’s birthday came and went. Rodrigue sent Theo and Felix to Galatea for the celebrations as he buried himself further in his work. He sent a letter with Theo: an apology and a promise to Count Galatea that he would compensate for his absence at a later time.

Frankly speaking, he wasn’t quite fit to travel.

The dark magic had receded from his arms, but they were more prone to numbing and other discomforts. Ointments and concoctions did little to help with that. Channeling white magic was more difficult than it used to be: casting the fourth Aura made his senses tingle in a way it hadn’t previously, and brought a taste of ash mingled with iron into his mouth.

And because he was still recovering, he nearly fainted the first time he had attempted it on the group of bandits he and his knights had gone to take care of.

What another lord’s knights might have mocked them for behind their back, his soldiers fretted over. It made Rodrigue smile faintly: to be surrounded by good men and women alike in times like these was a boon not many could say they had. He had done well to vet the castle staff thoroughly after his father had handed the title down to him.

At home, there was no need to worry about getting a dagger shoved between his shoulder blades.

Fhirdiad had once been like a second home, but things had changed after Lambert’s passing. _Perhaps it was you that was my home away from home, Lambert,_ Rodrigue often mused as he took a stroll in the snow-covered gardens in his own castle and gazed to the horizon, where Fhirdiad lay unseen.

After Ingrid’s birthday, weeks passed until Felix’s came around. It was his first without Glenn – he had _always_ come home for Felix’s birthday – and it was just as strange an affair as Rodrigue’s own birthday had been.

Sylvain and Ingrid came to visit for the occasion, but that was as much celebration as could be arranged. News from other parts of the Kingdom were alarming: unrest everywhere, with no signs of stopping. The roads were dangerous. No noble dared to travel under such conditions – unless one was Margrave Gautier and overconfident in himself, of course.

Antoine had come with Sylvain and Ingrid in tow, as the Gautiers had been visiting Galatea for politics. Hans had seen it fit to entrust his daughter to the Gautier and his entourage for safe travel.

“Gave the man two barrels of my best wine,” Antoine told him over a cup of wine, smiling a little. as though he had done a gracious deed. They were in Rodrigue’s private parlor, the hearth radiating heat all the way from the other side of the room. “Looked like he was in terrible need of it. Have you seen him smile once since Lambert’s funeral?”

 _No,_ Rodrigue thought, _and I cannot blame him._

He rarely felt like smiling himself, these days. 

* * *

His next visit to Fhirdiad came soon after, in the early days of Lone Moon, but this time he did not take Felix with him. To his surprise, Felix hadn’t protested – perhaps due to whatever had strained his and Dimitri’s friendship – but Rodrigue could not spend much time dwelling on it.

Instead of taking a carriage ride, he went on horseback. Much faster and safer than carriage, and it had been too long since he had ridden Maribelle even for leisure. She tossed her head moodily at him as he mounted her, but she calmed down as soon as he pressed his heels to her side and led them outside the castle gates.

Rodrigue suspected she loved the feel of winter wind rushing through her mane as much as he did, but he had no way of ascertaining the truth of this. 

A few knights and soldiers accompanied him as always, though not as many as normally. They had protested it – “My lord, remember the trouble from before!” – but Rodrigue had said he needed to get to Fhirdiad fast, which would be difficult with a larger group. The less time spent on the road, the better.

It meant less time second-guessing himself, as well. He was not at his best when it came to confronting the people he cared for – though he had tried, oh he had _tried_ – and Rufus had once counted among those.

Doing so should be easier now that he didn’t, but it wasn’t. Even the ride across the plains that he so enjoyed didn’t remove the worry in his gut. Blaiddyd stubbornness was insufferably strong in both Lambert and Rufus, but Lambert had at least lent his ear to Rodrigue more often than outright ignore him.

The thought made Rodrigue lonely. In some weeks, past the new year and before the short summer season, a year would have passed since Lambert and Glenn had died, along with a great number of knights and friends. Castle Fhirdiad wasn’t empty, but it often felt like it. The absence of a true friend was a cruel thing – no wonder Dimitri had looked so forlorn and small.

The road to Fhirdiad was dangerous. Two times did bandits – _true_ bandits – attempt to rob them, but two flashes of Aura both from him and the lady knight at his side cleaned the way for them. They spent a night at an inn and arrived at the city gates at noon the following day. The guards at their posts straightened at their approach, both men that Rodrigue recognized. Both had been in Lambert’s service, and he was glad to see them both still, for they marked a sense of normalcy in an otherwise abnormal time.

“My lord!” one of them called out as he and his companions approached the gates. “Good timing! There’s some hassle at the castle that needs tending to.”

“Hassle?” Rodrigue furrowed his brows as he brought Maribelle to a reluctant halt. The mare whickered in annoyance. She had been born nearly at the same time with Felix, and Rodrigue often wondered if their similar tempers had been decided by the stars. “What trouble is there?”

One of the guards shook his head. “There’s a commoner screaming her throat sore at the castle gates.”

The other one said, “Could be your secret sister, my lord. Everyone’s saying how much she looks like you and your family.”

Rodrigue’s brows furrowed deeper. He had never known his lord father to be unfaithful to his lady mother, though… he scarcely knew the man his father had been to his mother. “What is she screaming for, this commoner?”

“For the Regent,” the older guard said with a derisive snort. “Not difficult to guess why, if you ask me, my lord.”

As Rodrigue rode into the city, dread filled his stomach. He had _not_ come to Fhirdiad to handle Rufus’ messy love affairs – if they could even be called that – but apparently it was another thing he must subject himself to in his attempts at keeping the Kingdom’s rule from shattering completely.

No one ever said duty was easy to adhere to, or even pleasant, he reminded himself as he eyed at the looming stone blue castle. His eyes found the balcony adjacent to the king’s chambers easily. From there, Lambert had addressed his people many times, but Lambert was gone and the balcony belonged to Rufus for the time being.

In time, it would be Dimitri that stood on the balcony and spoke to his subjects as a true king.

When Rodrigue and his knights reached the castle gates perhaps twenty minutes later – they were not the only horsemen around and besides them, many wagons trailed the streets – he caught sight of a woman of pale skin and dark hair. She wasn’t screaming, but her shoulders shook from the effort to do something.

 _Must be her,_ Rodrigue thought to himself as he signaled for his knights to go through the castle gates while he dismounted before the woman and the castle’s gatekeepers.

They were ones he didn’t know horribly well. Rufus had made some personnel changes, and each visit Rodrigue did his best to pay attention to every change that had occurred when he had been away. But it was exhausting, just like Rufus’ ever-changing moods.

“My lady,” Rodrigue addressed her and bent his back to bow to her, a fist pressed over his heart. “Are you troubled? I hear someone’s been eagerly trying to reach out to the King Regent. Is it fair of me to presume it is you?”

The city guards at the gates weren’t wrong when they said she resembled him a great deal, he noted as he looked at her closely. Her most prominent feature was her hair: wavy midnight-colored hair fell on her shoulders, carrying many tangles and appearing generally tousled up from restless sleep. But her face was striking, as well: while her complexion was borderline pallid, the shape of her mouth was firm and her brown eyes like wildfire.

This was a woman that had gone through a lot, Rodrigue thought to himself. And yet, she wasn’t much older than him – if at all.

She did not smile for him, though she curtsied to him awkwardly.

“My lord,” she said, her words stiff and hoarse from screaming. She had looked down for her curtsy, but as soon as it was done, her eyes rose to meet his. She was a little taller than him, so in the end she was the one looking down to him. “The Regent refuses to meet me. Surely he must have heard of me by now. I have been screaming my voice hoarse here at this goddess-cursed plaza for a fortnight.”

He looked down to her clenched hands. From what little he could see, her wrists were bruised dark. “I take it the guards haven’t been the gentlest with you.”

“They have not,” she admitted, throwing a look at the gatekeepers, who both looked away when Rodrigue too turned his head. Rufus’ men, no doubt. “I keep telling them to bring the Regent to me, and they refuse.”

“The Regent is a busy man,” he said, turning his attention to her. “I must apologize on his behalf.” It was not the first time he had to do so. “What did you wish to discuss with him? I will bring word of you to him.”

If Rufus listened to him. In the light of the past months, it seemed unlikely, but Rodrigue would keep trying regardless. Duty was unpleasant, but someone must see it done.

She looked at him through narrow eyes, and for a moment Rodrigue thought she might not confide in him at all. It was a public place after all, and wagons kept strolling past them and the castle gates. Winter was not over yet, but the worst of it was done and sun shone high on the sky once more.

“My son,” she blurted out. “My son has gone missing, and… the Regent…” Her eyes trailed away. She did not blush, but she wrung her hands together uncomfortably. “He has not done much for the son he’s responsible for, but I hoped…”

Rodrigue felt sorry for her. He knew well how expecting things from Rufus only led to a landslide of disappointment. “What is your son’s name?”

“Ismael,” she said, and all air punched out of Rodrigue’s lungs at that.

He could see the resemblance between the mother and son, now that she had mentioned it. Aside from eyes and some facial features, the boy had inherited a lot from his mother.

Rodrigue smiled sadly at her. He had delivered these news before many a time, but it had been a while since he last had to. He hadn’t talked about Glenn properly with Felix, though he ought to have, before the broken armor returned from Duscur. “I fear the Regent won’t be able to help you find him. A young man with that name and his mercenary group attacked a lord coming from Fhirdiad some weeks ago, and lost his life in the attempt.”

Her face fell, and her hand reached out to grip his arm – a sight at which the gatekeepers balked and readied their weapons for, but Rodrigue dismissed them with a wave of his free hand. He never took his eyes from her.

“Are you certain – are you certain it was my Ismael?” she asked, despair and fear in her eyes even if her mouth remained a stiff line and her voice even. “I know he was off doing things to get money for me, but…”

“Without a doubt, it was him,” Rodrigue said and bowed his head. “My condolences.”

She let go of his arm at that, looking as desolate as he had felt at the sight of Glenn’s gravestone.

His heart was heavy as he mounted Maribelle again and entered the castle grounds through the thick iron gates. There would be no more crying and screaming, at the cost of a mother’s hopes.

No parent should ever see their child go before them.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He had been dreaming of Glenn burning in black flames, recently.

* * *

“Why, Duke Fraldarius,” Rufus said as a greeting when Rodrigue found him in the castle gardens, “you seem to have rushed to meet me.” He didn’t turn to look behind himself at Rodrigue’s approach, and yet…

Rodrigue hummed. as he primly seated himself beside Rufus on the wide stone bench where he had often listened to the older boy’s wondrous tales of chivalry and magic. “Astute of you to tell who it was, Your Highness.”

It was late winter, but spring was long ways from coming. A new year was approaching, and a few weeks after it the anniversary of a tragedy.

How had it been so long already?

“I can tell by your footsteps,” Rufus said, not lifting his eyes from the book splayed open on his lap. He sounded bored, almost as though he were suffocating a yawn as he spoke. “You walk the same way as you did when you sneaked out of my chambers in the past, you know.”

“I do not think I do.” Rodrigue squinted at Rufus’ profile. “I have nothing to be ashamed of currently.”

That lifted Rufus’ head and lips up, grey eyes tired but amused as they peered at him. “We can change that if you like, little Fraldarius. Shame suits you perfectly well.”

The direction where this conversation was heading was not where Rodrigue wanted it to go, and so he turned his eyes away and stared at the winter scene of the garden as he changed the topic. “There’s been a commoner at your gates screaming for you for a fortnight, I hear.”

“There always is,” Rufus said. “You know well how fast lovers get spurned.”

Snowflakes had begun falling, and Rodrigue studied their fall instead of answering the man immediately. “She gave you a son, Rufus.”

“I have no children,” Rufus snorted. It was an ugly sound that rang through the silence around them. “None that can be proven to be mine, anyhow.”

Rodrigue thought of Glenn. Of his late wife. And of Ismael and his downward-curling scowl. “He had your look. His name was Ismael.”

“Was?”

“He died when he and his mercenary group attacked my carriage the last time I left Fhirdiad.” Rodrigue stared at Rufus from the corner of his eyes and saw the exact moment Rufus’ hand stilled in the middle of turning a page.

“Failed to take your life, seeing as you are still here,” Rufus said, though his voice tightened strangely as his fingers caressed the page he had been turning. The tips of his fingers were red and stiff with cold. Why he was outside with such light clothing was beyond Rodrigue. “Good riddance.”

“He was killed in a similar manner as your late brother, Your Highness,” Rodrigue said quietly. The memory of how the dark magic had smelt, how it had _felt_ under his skin, made his lips purse tighter and his head dip low in grief. “His employer did not seem to mean for him and his group to live.”

“Beheaded? I did not take you for a cruel man, Rodrigue.”

Rodrigue huffed. His breath came out as fog, but it was soon gone in the cold garden. Ice flowers ruled the space where Gautier roses had once been. Rodrigue’s eyes lingered on the brittle crystal-like leaves. “You misunderstand me, Your Highness. He was killed with dark magic, as was the late king.”

Again, Rufus paused. Rodrigue glanced at him, and this time Rufus was looking at him with furrowed brows. His handsome face appeared neutral, but the lines of his lips were taut. “You have been investigating.”

“Someone must,” Rodrigue said. Cold sweat formed on the back of his neck, and he thought of Dimitri. He was dancing on a sword’s edge now, he knew. “I never agreed with your decision to burn an entire country down without proper assessment of the situation.”

“You still fret over that?” Rufus’ lips pulled downwards. “They were an example. To any other traitors that linger among us. There will be no mercy to those that oppose the crown.”

“Many innocent people died, Your Highness. _They_ deserved mercy and justice.” Glenn and Lambert’s deaths shouldn’t have been used as an excuse to ruin so many other lives, and yet they had. Rodrigue’s eyelids drooped. “Besides, the example you set seems to not have worked, as someone clearly intended to silence me.”

_And they used your son for it._

Perhaps it wasn’t only Dimitri that was in danger.

* * *

When Glenn was born, Rodrigue had been terribly anxious, as young fathers tended to be. Not as much as young mothers, but there was certain hopelessness in watching everything unfold from the sidelines as a witness unable to do anything.

Nadia, his duchess, was stuck in her bed chamber for nearly a full day before a midwife came to announce that the Duchess Fraldarius had given birth to a healthy baby boy and was requesting the Duke’s presence at her bedside.

Rodrigue, who had dropped by his wife’s door every few hours without mistake, followed along, his nerves finally settled. His father, goddess be blessed, was out hunting in Gautier territory with other retired lords and knights. He would not meet his grandson until he returned, perhaps in a week or so.

Nadia was exhausted, but her eyes smiled when she caught sight of him at her chamber’s entrance.

“He wasn’t too difficult a child, thankfully,” she said, and Rodrigue’s eyes fell to the bundle of blankets cradled in her arms. A soft noise came from the folds of fabric, and it invited Rodrigue to walk over, heart pounding with anxious anticipation.

Nadia’s stern mouth curved into a rare smile. “You look as though the poor thing will bite you, my lord. Come hold him; he’s your son as much as he’s mine.”

And he went: he sat down at her side and carefully took the bundle of blankets when she offered it out to him.

 _Careful,_ he told himself, anxiety tingling in each of his nerves, _very careful…_

Nadia huffed at him. “He’s not going to bite without any teeth, Rodrigue.”

“That is not what I fear, dear,” Rodrigue said as he adjusted the baby in his arms until he saw the sleepy face of his firstborn. In truth, he worried he had forgotten how tender gentleness worked – he hadn’t had much experience with it before his marriage, which was still in its first year.

But all worries vanished at the sight of chubby cheeks and closed eyes.

“A handsome boy, isn’t he?” Nadia asked him, and Rodrigue could only nod as a soft smile broke out on his face.

He sat there, with Nadia and their son, for a good while longer, running his fingers idly through Nadia’s sweat-dampened hair. It was one of the most comfortable silence he had experienced in his life; one of the happiest moments he would ever live through.

The boy’s name would be Glenn, after Nadia’s stillborn brother.

If there was such thing as love and affection at first sight, Rodrigue mused as he watched over his sleeping son, then this might be it.

Whether a Blaiddyd loved or hated him didn’t seem so crucial a matter in that moment.

* * *

The reason he had gone to Fhirdiad so hastily was not only to ascertain Dimitri’s safety out of worry that whoever had tried to get rid of him would be so bold as to move onto the crown prince next. It was the predominant reason, along with the conversation he needed to and did have with Rufus, but another need had been nagging at Rodrigue’s mind as he had been recovering in Fraldarius.

And that was how he found himself inside the renowned School of Sorcery, studying its classrooms and hallways with a critical eye as the headmaster himself attended to him.

The headmaster of such a prestigious school was perhaps surprisingly unremarkable in appearance, but it was often said that those who dressed finely were the least dangerous and those who dressed in nothing were more. A wolf in sheep’s clothing was a wolf regardless, and intelligence did not always come with vanity.

“Are you considering transferring your son to study here?” the headmaster asked him as they passed the auditorium, which was the closest thing resembling an amphitheater in Faerghus. Unlike the structures down south, however, the auditorium was solid rock like the rest of the school and its campus.

The headmaster continued, in his thin voice, “My lord is so talented with faith magic, I am certain we could make something out of your son, as well.”

Neither Glenn nor Felix had ever shown particular interest or talent for faith, as was typical of sons of House Fraldarius.

“He has different talents and is pleased to utilize them as he sees fit,” Rodrigue told the headmaster. Their steps echoed off the stone walls as they walked down a long hall, surrounded by Kingdom banners. “I am more interested in the research you’re conducting here.”

It was late afternoon, but sun still lingered in the sky and some of its light trickled down on the carpeted floor as they walked. Some sunlight glistened on the bald headmaster’s head. He hummed thoughtfully at Rodrigue’s words before saying slowly, “It is not in my habit to reveal our research to outsiders, my good lord.”

“I understand,” Rodrigue said. “It is not for my own purposes I’m asking… I only wish to confirm something in relation to His Majesty’s ill-timed fate.”

Headmaster halted at that. Rodrigue watched him closely, unblinking as he studied the suddenly paling face. The man quickly gathered his wits and clenched his slightly ajar jaw shut. His voice was tight when he spoke again.

“His Majesty’s… you suspect magic was involved?”

Rodrigue would not base his entire estimation of the man solely on this reaction, though it seemed genuine enough. Still, he nodded. “Without a doubt. Magic that I had not come across in all my time practicing faith.”

“That is disconcerting to hear, my lord.” He shook his head, clearly dismayed by the news. “There are some old tales of foreign magics, of course, but they are… _old_ , as I said.”

“Anything you might have heard of could be of use,” Rodrigue said quietly as their walk resumed. This time, towards the research rooms. “I am at my wit’s end as to where such magic could have appeared from without warning.”

He had slight suspicions, but those he would keep to himself. They might well be unjust paranoia, caused by months and months of stress.

* * *

The afternoon at the School of Sorcery didn’t yield any concrete results, though Rodrigue learned of many fascinating and, frankly put, horrifying tales of past magics from countries outside of Fódlan. In the east, _far_ east of Almyra, blood magics had reigned supreme once. In north, past Sreng and the sea, magic was said to not be free from consequence, a great harbinger of disaster and doom to all that meddled with it. That had been once. The current circumstances were vague.

It was interesting, for certain, but not particularly useful for Rodrigue’s intentions. Nothing about the Empire’s past magics was mentioned either, though the Empire was well-known for being blessed with the gift of reason magic.

But then, he didn’t well understand the magic he was trying to find more out of. For that, he would need more close contact with it, and the last time had been sickening enough of an experience.

The thought of it made him rub at his arm as he returned to the castle. Even now, his veins occasionally throbbed with phantom sensations of something crawling in them.

Glenn must have suffered before his death, but he would have suffered had he survived, as well. More than just physically.

Wherever he was now, Rodrigue hoped he was in a painless state.

* * *

When council gathered later that week, Cornelia didn’t attend.

Even more surprisingly, _Rufus_ did. Certainly, he did not look happy to be there, but he looked even less happy when Cornelia was brought up.

“She’s not the Regent, is she?” he said gruffly as he sat back on his chair. “It is time I attend these myself.”

Had it not been so suspicious, Rodrigue would have been glad for Rufus’ seeming change of heart.

* * *

In the days he stayed in Fhirdiad, he discovered Rufus had a daughter in the city, as well.

Around Felix’s age.

It did not surprise him, not truly.

* * *

One summer Rodrigue spent at the School of Sorcery at Fhirdiad. It had been his lady mother’s idea, of course: his lord father disliked sorcery and magic, but he had been unable to deny his wife’s request.

(A tantrum, his lord father called it.)

He had been nine then – in that year’s fall he would be turning ten. It was the last summer before Rufus and Lambert’s relationship would begin to grow sour and embittered.

He was meant to spend the short summer months studying under the headmaster’s guidance, but in truth he spent much more time at the castle with Lambert and Rufus and occasionally even Antoine.

That summer they spent their time discovering secret passageways through the castle. Often they would return from these trips with dirty clothes and dust-smudged cheeks. Rufus then attempted to tidy Rodrigue and Lambert up, often unsuccessfully.

Oh, the scolding they all would get – Rufus, in particular, as he was the eldest of the three and supposed to “know better” as the king of the time put it.

“I don’t really care,” he said when Rodrigue later warily asked him about it, with his hands clenched around the hem of his tunic. Rufus’ grey eyes had been warm and kind back then as he reached out to ruffled Rodrigue’s hair without heeding the protests from him. “You had fun, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rufus’ smile had widened. Even to this day, Rodrigue remembered that gap-toothed smile. “Then it was all worth it, little Fraldarius.”

* * *

Cornelia and Rufus argued behind the scenes, that much became obvious to Rodrigue as he observed the court life in the next few days. Cornelia was not quite so welcome a presence in Rufus’ breakfast table anymore.

But with Cornelia’s absence, more room opened up for him, and Rodrigue was not sure whether he liked that or not. He should have appreciated it, for it gave him more leeway, but a part of him disliked it as well.

But a soldier did as duty commanded, and Rodrigue was a soldier at heart. Though no soldier that he knew had ever approached breakfast like it was a battle to be conquered. First time for everything, he supposed as he sat down by Rufus’ side for breakfast and did his best to keep his good mood through the strenuous conversation.

The mention of Cornelia soured Rufus’ mood. “Must we talk about her?” he asked in a voice that left no room for disagreement. “There are much more pleasant discussions to be had.”

Rodrigue allowed Rufus to change the topic, replying politely where he could.

It was nothing to make definitive conclusions of – yet – but at least he was one step closer, and some of his suspicions were at least on the correct route.

Knowing that didn’t bring much joy to him, however. Now it seemed to him that his friendships were just as doomed as any romantic affair with Lambert.

* * *

Weeks passed, and so Faerghus welcomed a new year for the first time without her rightful king. Weeks later, the anniversary of the Tragedy passed. It was difficult to pinpoint the exact date to it, but everyone felt its presence over their shoulders.

Rodrigue did, as well. Dreams had been particularly awful as of late: Glenn burning in flames of black and purple even as he continued to fight against an unseen enemy, and Lambert on his knees as an executioner’s sword came down for his neck.

He woke with a start just before Lambert was beheaded, and that was the only help the goddess saw fit to give him.

His eyes burned with a dull ache behind them, but he never cried. His father would be proud, were he alive to see it.

There was time for misery and wallowing, but this was not it, he reminded himself. Again and again, until his breath was calm and steady and the cold sweat gone.

He visited the graveyard without Felix often in those couple of weeks, despite having avoided it over the months. Each time he brought flowers grown in the greenhouse, and left them in front of two gravestones.

In one, letters G L E N N were engraved. They looked fresh and new, as though it hadn’t been almost a year since it had been erected in the wet ground.

Beside the stone was another, and its letters were worn with time. _N A D I A,_ they spelled out, and looking at them made Rodrigue smile sadly as he brushed his gloved fingers over the dips each letter left on stone.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to the stone, which was wet with melting snow. “Take care of Glenn for a little while, won’t you?”

There was no response, only the quiet whisper of spring wind.

* * *

Glenn had _adored_ horses – and pegasi, though they rarely let the boy come close. He learned to ride a pony not too long after he had first been given a practice sword. Watching him holler with delight atop one of the poor creatures was one of the highlights of Rodrigue’s daily life at the time.

Felix had been born fairly recently – a few months ago. His birth had left Nadia weak and in bedrest, but she recovered from it just as Lambert’s queen had.

It was around this time that Glenn got into his head that he wanted to be a knight. Which was a relief, in truth: Rodrigue had been at a standstill in regards what to do with Glenn and Felix. Glenn was older but Crestless; Felix younger and Crested, and of same age as Prince Dimitri.

Glenn hadn’t taken well to Felix, initially, and it too had worried Rodrigue. Memories of Rufus and Lambert’s souring relationship flashed through his head, and he was no closer to a real solution as to what to do with the boys.

But then Glenn had picked up his wooden sword and declared that he’d be a knight.

And that was that.

Only very few times in his life had he been so relieved as he was right then.

* * *

Summer came, and with it the truth that Rodrigue could not evade any longer: Rufus knew something about Lambert’s death, and he was carefully hiding it. Perhaps he even knew the person that had sent Ismael’s group on Rodrigue in Guardian Moon.

Perhaps he could confirm Rodrigue’s suspicions on that.

Rodrigue’s stomach twisted at the idea of Rufus being at all involved with the evident conspiracy that had led to Lambert’s death, but the time for sentimentality was long gone between them.

How involved Rufus was – Rodrigue knew not. But he would, eventually.

By the end of the Ethereal Moon, he decided as he penned a letter for Rufus and goddess only knew who else to read.

* * *

Midsummer celebrations sprung across the country like torches in night. The previous year there hadn’t been much of them, given the immediate unrest the king’s death had left the country in, but people seemed more than determined to make up for it this year.

Or desperate to have _something_ else to focus on rather than the increasing unrest among the people and the rising prices and taxes.

Rodrigue could sympathize with them, could even bring himself to participate in the ball in the capital and the lighting of a great bonfire on the shore of the river that crossed Fhirdiad’s edges. But he could not bring himself to feel joy in it.

 _To think I could still experience something for the first time with you,_ Lambert had told him the night before he had disappeared from Rodrigue’s life.

 _To think I would have to experience something for the first time without you,_ Rodrigue now thought as he gazed at the great fire and the smoke that ascended toward the clear starlit sky. Dimitri, Dedue, and Felix stood little ways from him, absorbed in their own conversations though Felix looked displeased, if not even constipated.

Dimitri left in the middle of it, pale-faced and in a hurry, looking like he might retch. Rodrigue would have gone after him, but the Duscur boy had already done so, much faster and in tune with his prince’s emotions than the rest of them. People were _much_ more willing to part from his way, and Rodrigue’s mouth curved down grimly at the sight of it.

The surviving people from Duscur had yet to act on what had happened to their home, but the situation would come to a boiling point sooner or later.

Time was not a luxury the Kingdom could afford, but Rodrigue could not be hasty either. Justice when given without thought was not justice, after all.

* * *

He discussed the idea with Cornelia in further detail on the last day of the capital’s midsummer celebrations. They were back in Cornelia’s favored parlor, decorated much richer than it had previously been. Reds and forest greens now ruled the stone walls, though a blink of Faerghus blue could be seen throughout.

Rodrigue found he missed the simpler tones of color, but he said nothing on it as he sat down for a teatime with who had once been a dear friend to him. He slipped out of his cloak and folded it over the back of the chair before bowing and sitting down at the inclination of Cornelia’s head.

“His Highness’ 15th birthday is coming up in six moons,” he said as he stirred at his tea. He shook his head to the sugar a servant was offering him, and so the servant went to spoon some of it into Cornelia’s cup instead. Sugar price had gone up recently, Rodrigue recalled.

He had lost his taste for sweet a while back. Perhaps that was for the better.

“So it is,” Cornelia said, smiling faintly. Still, she gave off an air of disinterest as she shrugged her shoulders. “Blaiddyds grow fast, don’t they? I’ve heard all manners of gossip about His Other Highness and the late king’s upbringing, as well.”

The way her intonation rose at _His Other Highness_ betrayed her well enough. Rodrigue’s eyelids shut briefly as he sipped at his tea and weighed his words. “I had heard you and the Regent had disagreements recently. Is everything well?”

Cornelia clicked her tongue. Her body language remained relaxed, almost flippant, but her eyes grew cold and with them the rest of her face as well. “He’s an awful, stubborn man. I trust you know what I mean, Duke?”

He did.

“I can sympathize,” he acknowledged. “He’s always been that way, and recent times… needless to say, they haven’t been good for anyone.”

The gap-toothed smile from years past was long gone; many other good things had died over time, and Rodrigue had never quite realized how much the loss of them agonized him. It was the loss of Lambert that highlighted the other ones: like the loss of sunlight in winter made the miserable weather even more unbearable.

Cornelia’s smile lifted higher up at his words, something like genuine sorrow in her eyes as she said, “Perhaps he’ll lend an ear to you, my lord.”

Her gaze flickered down. Her abashed play would have been effective if not for her recent behavior. “If not an ear… I am certain he’d be eager to vent through another means.”

Rodrigue had been around the oldest living Blaiddyd enough to have heard much more direct suggestions than hers, and so he didn’t spit the drink out of his mouth. The corners of his lips tightened regardless. “His Highness may release his frustrations in however manner he wishes as long as he leaves me out of it and does not act dishonorably.”

He set his cup of tea down and steepled his fingers over his knees. “I was considering holding a ball in honor of the crown prince’s birthday.” He smiled thinly. “I believe you were of the mind that people should find something worth celebrating in trying times, yes?”

Cornelia studied his face for a moment before leaning back and shrugging her bare shoulders. “You are sparing us the trouble of arranging something for the prince. Feel free to do as you please.”

Nothing suggested that she had known of his idea beforehand – _good_ , Rodrigue thought, with some relief as he gathered himself half an hour later and left the parlor to attend his more serious duties around the castle. (Which meant Dimitri and Felix; Gustave had disappeared, and there was no one else Rodrigue trusted with the children as much. _An awful timing_ , Rodrigue thought when he heard of it.)

As long as Cornelia and Rufus did not make amends with one another, there was a chance that Rodrigue could find a sliver of _something_.

* * *

“For someone that so loathes my company, you keep running back to me with a tail between your legs,” Rufus observed that night as they once again dined in what had once been Lambert’s chamber. It was close enough to a habit at this point, and Rodrigue could even ignore the king-sized bed behind them now.

The memories were there, at the corner of his mind, but he shoved them aside.

“Wolves do have tails,” he said agreeably before biting into a piece of lamb. The taste of sauce and meat mixed on his tongue, and he nearly sighed. It had been a while since food had had any taste to him. _Wolves do have tails,_ he mused, _but even when it’s between their legs, one must never be careless._

Rufus remained silent for a while, but his stare bore into Rodrigue, who kept on eating. He could tolerate this mockery of camaraderie between himself and Rufus, as long as it accomplished something, anything at all.

For Dimitri’s sake as much as the Kingdom’s.

When the dinner was done, and the conversation regarding Dimitri’s birthday finished, Rufus lifted his hand up press a kiss on its bare back, grey eyes looking up to Rodrigue’s face all the time to study his reaction.

 _You wished to be a king,_ Rodrigue thought, _and yet you refuse to act like one even in moments like this._

It was the most Lambert-like thing Rufus had perhaps ever done, and as much as he tried to stop himself, his heart quivered just the slightest bit.

“Your Highness,” he said gently, tugging his hand away. “That goes against the etiquette.”

Rufus smiled and moved to grab his hand again. As ever, so unmindful of what Rodrigue wanted. “You have always been so stiff about etiquette... My brother complained about it constantly behind your back, I’ll have you know.”

Rodrigue said nothing.

“Were you like this when he bedded you, too?” Rufus’ question was more out of curiosity than cruelty, Rodrigue recognized it, but Rufus had always been just as good at being accidentally cruel as Lambert. If not even better. Most times, it wasn’t by accident anymore.

Rufus laughed, a drunken sound that was equal parts of pitiable and disgusting, and kept his grip on Rodrigue’s hand tight. “I can almost picture you begging him. ‘Oh, Your Majesty, do have me on the same bed you took your lady wives to—‘”

 _I am certain he’d be eager to vent through another means,_ Cornelia had said just hours ago, and Rodrigue didn’t doubt she was right. If Rufus felt grief – and Rodrigue was uncertain whether he did – then this was the way he _would_ go about it.

“Your Highness,” he said tightly. It was difficult, but he met Rufus’ eyes and didn’t look away. “I ask you to stay silent on matters that have nothing to do with you.”

“Nothing to do with me?” Rufus snorted. His voice went tremulous and angry as he went on, “Who was it that used me as a replacement for my brother? Who came crawling to _me_ when he felt small and lonely and my brother didn’t have time—”

Rodrigue stood up so abruptly the chair fell behind him, crashing on the floor. The echo of it made Rufus snap his jaws shut, but his eyes still stormed with the grief and anger he had never let go of.

“I never thought of you as a replacement for Lambert,” Rodrigue said quietly. Evenly, despite the chill that crawled into his tone. He looked down to Rufus coldly. “I was a fool. There wasn’t more to it than that, Rufus.”

_A fool, because a part of me still trusted you back then._

“You look weary, Your Highness,” he added more kindly as he pried Rufus’ fingers off of his wrist. From the table, he took his gloves and put them on once more. Summer was fleeting but warm, while the castle always remained chilly. “I will let the servants know you’re ready to settle down for the night.”

“You may take your leave now,” Rufus said as Rodrigue turned his back to him, “but I am still the only one you have left, Rodrigue.”

The worst part was Rufus’ words held some truth in them.

* * *

Only once in his entire life had Rodrigue ever seen Rufus cry openly, and even that was for only a brief moment.

He had been ten at the time, like Lambert, while Rufus was fourteen, almost fifteen and an adult compared to them. That was why it had been so startling when one day during Rodrigue’s short stay at the castle in late summer, he had stumbled across Rufus, who was out of breath and a complete mess.

Rodrigue had begun to smile and open his mouth to say _hello_ , but the dripping blood had made him freeze on the spot. Drip-drip-drip, it went as the droplets hit the uncarpeted stone floor at uneven pace, but louder were the ragged breaths and sobs muffled into the sleeve of a tunic.

Rodrigue had carefully trudged on. With a small voice, he called out, “Rufus?”

Rufus had started at the sound of his voice and lifted his voice from his arm, thus revealing the quickly bruising and still weeping eye along with the broken, bleeding nose.

He looked as though he had lost more than just a fight, and perhaps that was why Rodrigue only gaped wordlessly at the fourteen-year-old boy, whose eyes blinked furiously and uselessly to get rid of the tears.

“Out of my way,” Rufus croaked after the moment had passed, and walked brusquely by Rodrigue, a hand shoving him aside with enough force to knock the child over. Rufus didn’t look back, even as Rodrigue lay on the floor on his butt and tried to comprehend what just happened.

Afterwards, he didn’t see Rufus again on that visit.

And when he came back to Fhirdiad with his lord father and lady mother as well as his young baby brother, the damage had already festered and the cracks between the Blaiddyd brothers and their relationship showed.

Rodrigue never figured out what had happened that day. How could he, having been but a child himself?

And yet, he had grieved it with Lambert.

* * *

Verdant Rain Moon saw the regent’s birthday, and Rodrigue dutifully attended the celebrations. Dutifully watched Rufus flirt with a lady of dark hair and pleasant smiles, only turning his gaze when the duo left the ballroom. Rodrigue had no doubts where they were headed.

He had a few too many cups of wine that night, but there was no real danger to it as Rufus had gone to find pleasure from someone else.

He dreamed of Lambert and the press of his mouth against his, but when he woke, he had forgotten it.

So passed the Regent’s birthday, and so life went onward.

* * *

Horsebow Moon found Rodrigue in Gautier. The planning of Dimitri’s birthday ball was well on its way, and the roads were safer to travel for the time being, so he had decided to finally take up the chance to ask Antoine something that he had been wondering for a long while. It hadn’t truly felt urgent until after Lambert had unjustly been taken from the world; perhaps it was high time to fix that gaping hole in his understanding.

Horsebow Moon was already beginning to see weather turn chillier in Gautier, and so every fireplace in the keep had been lit by the time Rodrigue walked through its narrow hallways with Antoine’s guidance. The castle, in its entirety, had been built on the foundations of old Srengi settlements, Antoine had told him once when they were younger and more curious. In their childhoods, the castle had been at the border of Gautier and Sreng.

Now it was not so.

Margrave Gautier’s private parlor was a tight, narrow room, surprisingly austere in its appearance despite Antoine’s penchant for luxury and unnecessary expenses.

The wine, though… it was anything but lacking.

“You’re plotting something with His Highness’ birthday ball, aren’t you?” Antoine asked after he shooed off the servant. The bottle of ice wine had been uncorked and left on the table between them. Antoine lifted his cup up first and took a long sip, his green eyes regarding Rodrigue carefully over the cup’s edge. “I can tell, Rodrigue. You always have your reasons.”

“Not always,” Rodrigue said and tilted his head, as though admonished. A slow, melancholic smile tugged at his mouth. “You know well the trouble Lambert and I got into for no real reason.”

“He was always dragging you around like a ragdoll.”

Rodrigue looked down into the cup, at the dark red surface of wine. “As you were always with Rufus.”

He didn’t need to look up to gauge Antoine’s reaction; the slam of the cup against wood and a splashing of wine revealed more than enough.

Antoine’s voice was tight when he said, “That was a lifetime ago, my friend.”

Only then Rodrigue looked up to study the expression on Antoine’s face. It spoke of anger and resentment – and unacknowledged guilt. Antoine had never dealt well with that particular emotion.

Rodrigue took another sip to brace himself. “I have always wondered what happened to ruin your friendship so.”

The silence that fell could have been cut with a knife, so thick it was. But Rodrigue was used to these silences by now – it was what he was often faced with at dinner table in Fraldarius.

And so, he waited. Looked at Antoine expectantly but quietly.

Antoine crumbled at it, huffing and looking away not a minute later. For someone in his mid-forties, he looked like a petulant child. “I do not like speaking of the past, Rodrigue.”

_Liar. You’ve always liked bragging about your accomplishments against the Srengi, both in the past and the present._

“I doubt Rufus would answer me without exaggeration, but I can always ask him why he seems to despise your very presence the next time I meet him in the capital.” Rodrigue set his cup down, then. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. Regardless, I wish you could help me understand why things are as they are between you two.”

And why _Rufus_ was the way he was, in the best case scenario. But Rodrigue would keep his expectations low and take Antoine’s words with a pinch of salt.

Antoine’s lips pursed together. When he turned to look at Rodrigue again, the green of his eyes flashed. Whether it was anger or resignation… well, that was the question. “As you wish, then. For our friendship’s sake.”

* * *

It begun when Rufus was still thirteen and Antoine a proud fifteen-year-old. At the time Rufus had had this most ridiculously obvious puppy crush on a new servant working at the castle – two years older than him, so of the age with the Gautier hair – and watching it from the sidelines had been both pitiful _and_ hilarious.

Antoine, good and gracious older brother figure that he was, offered to give him tips on kissing and the finer things of relationships – though what those were, he hadn’t experienced himself yet. But his younger friend bought it, as naïve and trusting as he claimed his little brother was.

It wasn’t that bad of an arrangement. For all his impatience, Rufus was a quick learner and an amusing companion. They sneaked into each other’s rooms past midnight, and bribed servants to keep silent so their fathers never found out.

Rufus had been fascinated with holding hands, for some reason, and Antoine had indulged him often outside everyone else’s eyes.

It was fun for a while, but the noose of expectations only grew tighter around Antoine’s neck. Rufus’ careless (carefree) attitude stopped being charming some months into it.

So came a day in Antoine’s life when he was sixteen and in Fhirdiad, frowning and feeling heavy from a recent fight he had had with his oldest brother, the second oldest of the Gautier siblings. All five of them Crestless but him – of course they didn’t love him.

 _You have only what you have because of that damned thing_ , his brother had told him, scornful and bitter as he had brought Antoine to Fhirdiad with him. _You have earned nothing, and you never will because this world will bend its back for those that deserve nothing._

 _Francisca should have been the heir,_ he had said, and Antoine had only received a smack in the head when he had tried to insist that no one would respect Francisca because of her personality, not just because of her sex and lack of Crest.

The whole event had left Antoine feeling sullen as he had wandered off into the chamber usually reserved for him in the castle. There he had been for three quarters of an hour, wound-up and anxiety grinding at his nerves, when Rufus had shown up, all content and smiling that slightly skewed, gap-toothed smile of his as though nothing was wrong in his own little world.

Goddess, how _irritating_ that smile had become.

Rufus, to his credit, caught onto his mood pretty fast. It was hard not to, being shoved against the chamber door as roughly as he had been.

“Antoine, what the f—”

“Must be so nice,” Antoine hissed. Anger had taken him; words bubbled past his lips like lava from an active volcano. “Smiling like you have no care in the world! No one expects _anything_ from you!”

Rufus’ grey eyes had widened with shock at being shoved against the door but they soon narrowed at Antoine’s words, and the firstborn prince of Faerghus shoved back.

“Did a bear bite your ass or what’s gotten into yo—”

Antoine would have liked to say that it was Rufus that first punched him, but in truth, it was his fist that connected to Rufus’ face with a sickening _crunch_.

“Why are you the one that gets to be happy and clueless,” Antoine asked him between huffs of breaths, “when you’re the one that’s useless! Lambert’s the one with the Crest! Why do _you_ get to be happy when you have no right to anything!”

It felt good, in truth. Letting out all the pent-up pressure and stress – it felt good. He had been annoyed with Rufus for so long, and what with his own siblings being the way they were, Rufus was an easy target to vent it on.

Whether it was fair or not – well, Antoine hadn’t stopped to think about that.

Rufus screamed back at him, but none of his words really registered. Not the tears stuck in Rufus’ short eyelashes, not the way his lips quivered tremulously beneath the splatter of blood.

Would he have stopped if he had noticed?

A pointless question.

Antoine had never been the type of person to stop midway – either he succeeded tremendously or failed spectacularly, there was no in-between with him.

And so more words spilled past his lips even as Rufus’ nails dug into his face: “What good have you _ever_ done, huh? No one ever relies on _you_ for anything. No one ever will, because you’re just useless to everyone.”

It might have been then that Rufus’ elbow connected to his face. In the hassle of an emotional breakdown, it was difficult to separate one event from another.

“A prince of no one and nothing,” Antoine ground through his teeth, his sight blurry with angry tears. “Who needs you with Lambert around?”

_Who needs my siblings, when I’m here?_

Rufus sobbed, undoubtedly. He had never been a crybaby, but the brave face he wore crumbled from the heat of their fight. But he still fought back, with punches and headbutts and with nails and teeth until they were both bloody and bruised.

He didn’t really stand a chance. Antoine was sixteen and physically stronger and better developed.

By the time they were done, Antoine was straddling Rufus on the floor, breathing heavily and with blood smeared all over his once clean pale green tunic. Rufus was worse off: nose askew and broken, blood smearing at least half his face, with bruises beginning to bloom across the skin like red roses.

Antoine’s knuckles ached from the effort, and they too would bruise by the time next sunrise came.

When Antoine looked down at the boy beneath him, he found that Rufus no longer smiled.

 _Good,_ Antoine thought, oddly giddy and mind still clouded as he got off from the eldest prince of their kingdom. _I was growing sick of that smile._

Rufus left without so much as making a noise, though Antoine caught tears still dripping from his swelling eyes.

He found that he didn’t actually care much.

* * *

The silence that reigned the room after Antoine’s little story was so thick one could have cut it with a sword, but that ended as Rodrigue stood up from his seat and reached across the table to grab Antoine by the collar of his shirt, his other hand slamming on the wooden surface beside his cup of wine.

“You realize that you ruined Lambert’s relationship with him with your thoughtlessness, Antoine,” he said lowly, staring into Antoine’s dim green eyes. His fingers curled against the wood of the table until his hand formed a fist. “You _realize_ that that’s what you did, right, Antoine?”

“I was sixteen,” Antoine said, as though that absolved him of his guilt in being the indirect cause of so much misery for the two people Rodrigue had spent a lot of his childhood with.

“And he was fourteen!” Rodrigue could not help the way his voice rose with his indignation. The faint memory of a brave gap-toothed smile lingered at the edge of his mind, and it made him tighten his hold on the fabric beneath his fingers. “Antoine, you knew well how sensitive he was!”

“Was I wrong?” Antoine looked at him with furrowed brows. “Look at the state of our country, and tell me I was wrong, Rodrigue.”

“He would be a different man if you hadn’t said those things to him.”

“His Majesty would still have taken the throne, and he’d still have been tossed away to Itha,” Antoine said and leaned in closer, stubborn as ever to win an argument. “He was always unreliable. If he weren’t, he would have been born with the Crest—”

A loud _smack_ echoed off the stone walls of the parlor as Rodrigue backhanded Antoine across his face.

Rodrigue let go of Antoine’s collar and pulled away from him. His voice was even but cold when he said, “My oldest son was Crestless, as you well know. He died protecting His Majesty and His Highness. Which is more than either one of us can say for ourselves.”

 _He died like a true knight_.

_He was where I should have been._

“My younger brother has no Crest,” Rodrigue continued, anger simmering in the undertone of each word. “Had my late father had his way, Theo would have been the heir. Have you forgotten all of this, Antoine?”

 _You were there for some of it_. _You cannot tell me you forgot._

Antoine’s lips pressed together, but his eyes darted away from Rodrigue as he hesitated.

“I thought as much,” Rodrigue said quietly. He stood up fully then, straightened his back and pulled his hands back to his sides as he looked down at Antoine. In due time, he’d pity Antoine, but right then he was only angry. “You had your chances to minimize the damage you did to him, Antoine. It grieves me to know that you never took them.”

He turned his back on the man.

Antoine called out to him, indignant as well: “Where do you think you’re going, Rodrigue?”

“Back to Fraldarius,” Rodrigue said, glancing over his shoulder as his hand rested on the doorknob. “One of us has a kingdom and a regent to worry over.”

* * *

He encountered Antoine’s heir on his way to the castle stables, and perhaps something showed on his face because the lad stilled and seemed to rethink whether to approach him or not.

In the end, he chose to engage him. “My lord—”

“Ah, Sylvain.” Rodrigue mustered a smile for the boy. “Antoine has no need for you right now. I imagine he’s in a rather terrible mood.”

The poor boy was nearly a replica of his father at his age, and the charming smile that tugged at his mouth was the same, too. “Thanks for the warning. I would hate to disturb him if he’s like that. Are you leaving already? I was under the impression you were staying for a few nights, my lord.”

“I planned to,” Rodrigue admitted as they got out of the keep and headed down the path leading to the stables. “My plans changed. I will send Felix your regards, if you wish.”

“That’s a pity,” Sylvain said. “My old man’s always in a better mood when you’re visiting.”

“Not so this time, I fear.”

Sylvain followed him all the way down to the stables and watched with Rodrigue as the stable boys prepared Maribelle for travel again. Above them, storm clouds were gathering, but neither made a comment on it.

“Sylvain,” Rodrigue began slowly over Maribelle’s indignant whicker. “You are the oldest… so it is your duty to watch over His Highness, Felix, and Ingrid. You know this, do you not?”

Sylvain’s brows wrinkled with apparent confusion, but his expression smoothed out almost immediately as he said, “I have been told so numerous times.” Pause. “Glenn said so, too.”

“Good,” Rodrigue said. The mention of Glenn soothed his heart and the expression on his face. “They depend on you, you know. It’s the eldest’s duty to protect them… but it’s also the eldest that can hurt them the most.”

The smile died on his lips as he looked at Sylvain. The poor lad looked too much like his father. “Make sure you keep it in mind, Sylvain.”

“Will do.”

The casual manner with which Sylvain said the words didn’t convince Rodrigue, but the look on Sylvain’s face was serious as Rodrigue climbed atop his mare once more.

Felix, when the time came for him to go to the Academy, would be in good hands, Rodrigue mused.

“Safe travels, Lord Fraldarius,” Sylvain said, and so Rodrigue was off.

He left with a heavier heart than he had come - and with a disturbing feeling that Antoine had not told the full truth - but with it was the cherished hope for the children.

None of them had yet ruined anything as colossally as he and Antoine had, after all.

* * *

Lambert had never been keen on showing sadness very easily, so when Rodrigue walked into his dorm room after his faith lessons to find Lambert sitting on his bed with his head low and looking generally forlorn, it surprised and disturbed Rodrigue. Sadness was not an emotion created for Lambert, and neither was Lambert made for it.

Rodrigue dropped his study material on his desk and went on to sit down beside his friend, his hand finding the small of Lambert’s back. “Lambert,” he said kindly. “Did something happen?”

Lambert looked up then. His hair was a mess, but what truly pierced Rodrigue’s heart was the look in his eyes: a hopeless gleam that he had never seen on Lambert, only in the mirror.

“I don’t know what I am to do, Rodrigue,” Lambert said quietly, looking away as he leaned onto Rodrigue’s shoulder. “I try, but everything I do makes him loathe me more, it seems.”

“Rufus? …What did he do this time?”

“I was only trying to give him a birthday gift,” Lambert sighed miserably. “I don’t understand what I did to anger him.”

Rodrigue patted Lambert’s back in attempt to soothe, but Lambert’s distress didn’t ease off. “I don’t think there is anything you can do, Lambert,” he said quietly. “He’s determined to find fault in you regardless.”

“I miss my older brother, Rodrigue,” Lambert said, as though Rodrigue hadn’t spoken. He turned to wrap his arms around Rodrigue, pulling his friend into a tight embrace and burying his face into Rodrigue’s neck. He had done it often since childhood, but now it – felt different.

Indecent, almost, but Rodrigue would never deny Lambert.

“Do you think he’ll ever forgive me for whatever it is that I did?” Lambert mumbled against his neck.

For the life of him, Rodrigue knew not how to answer.

“If I were him,” Rodrigue said and inwardly thanked the goddess for not being Rufus, “I would.”

That seemed to appease Lambert well enough, but their hug lasted for a while longer as the monastery’s daily life went on outside the small dorm room.

* * *

Only three moons until Dimitri’s 15th birthday remained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID promise on Twitter that Rufus Blaiddyd would get punched in the face. 
> 
> On a more important note: I am preparing to move out from my current apartment and that and the, well, apartment-hunting will occupy most of my near future, so next update will either be in late July or August. (Considering how stupidly long these chapters are...)


	4. red, gray, and blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri's 15th birthday, and one horrifying possibility that hadn't occurred to Rodrigue before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: getting someone purposely drunk, canon-typical violence, etc. references to unpleasant sexual encounters.

“Rodrigue,” Theo said quietly one evening after Rodrigue’s return from Fhirdiad and the Founding Day celebrations. “Are you certain of this?”

He looked at Rodrigue over the dinner table, eyes slightly squinted together. He had yet to admit his need for glasses, as he was as stubborn as any Fraldarius. Neither had he yet had any incidents because of it, but Rodrigue wished he would swallow his pride.

It was a late supper – Felix had long since been ushered to sleep, and so the Fraldarius brothers had a meal all to themselves for the first time in a while. A meager meal as far as nobility went, but still salted and fresh.

Rodrigue lowered his fork as he gave Theo’s question some thought, though his answer had already been decided. “I have done enough waiting, Theo. One must never become complacent in this new order of things.”

Theo didn’t say anything for a while, but his brows knit tightly together.

People often assumed Theo was slow of wit, when in truth he only took his time considering and processing new information. Only with a sword was he swift to act, and Rodrigue had insisted he teach both his sons.

Theo had been teaching his own daughter as well, but he was much quieter about it. Protective of his only child, Rodrigue thought. He could not blame him for it. His marriage with Count Charon’s younger sister had proven to be one of mutual love and respect, which then extended to their daughter. It was only natural then that Theo, who had struggled with a loveless father as Rodrigue had – only in different ways, would do what he could do give her a life he hadn’t had.

“Still,” Theo said eventually, brows still furrowed and mouth curling lower. “You are essentially inviting the wolves in, brother. Is that _truly_ the smartest move at this point of time?”

“His Highness deserves some room to move around, at the very least,” Rodrigue returned as he cut into the meat on his plate again. His own brows furrowed as he considered his words. But he had never spared Theo from the truth, which he should have this time as well. “Fhirdiad is a dangerous place for a crown prince without an ally, these days.”

“You are putting a clear target on your own back,” Theo warned. He was six years Rodrigue’s junior, but the eye bags beneath his eyes were just as stark and strained. Clearly visible under the candlelight from a chandelier. “I will have you know, I do not crave for your title. Managing the castle in your absence is enough of a hassle.”

“I wouldn’t burden you with it intentionally,” Rodrigue reassured him, with a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “Though I believe you’re more capable than you think, Theo.”

Theo snorted, his cutlery clanging harshly on his plate as dropped them and crossed his arms over his chest. His shortcut hair left his ears visible, and even in the dim light Rodrigue thought he saw a flush creep on them.

Still, Theo managed an even tone when he spoke again. “I do not like that you’re bringing the Regent over here, honestly. That man poisons the air with his presence, and I was glad to stay far away from him.”

Theo had barely been four when Rufus had begun to take a drastically different direction from the boy he had been. Of course he wouldn’t remember. And even if he did, it would make no difference; Theo hated him too deeply, always had.

Rodrigue offered his brother an apologetic smile. “You do not have to partake in it, Theo. You may keep watch over the children, if you prefer. They are sure to go off on their own at some point, after all.”

That was what this all hinged on, anyway. Rodrigue would rather not have Dimitri and Felix’s eyes be on him when he’d do what was both dishonorable and necessary.

Theo sighed. The frown on his face grew deeper still until his lips were curled in a disgusted grimace. “And take my eyes off you? You are once again discounting my worry for you, Rodrigue. And that man… you expect me to trust you with him?”

Rodrigue had never told Theo about what had gone on between him and Rufus, but Theo seemed to have realized it on his own – again disproving the notion that he was dimwitted.

Rodrigue rather wished he were. Even so, he brought the fork to his lips and murmured, “I see no reason you shouldn’t.”

Theo sighed, but continued his meal in silence for a few blessed moments.

Until: “I do not wish for you to fall into the same trap as you did all those years ago, when I was too young and stupid to tell you to stop.”

 _You couldn’t have made me stop, even if you hadn’t been so young_ , Rodrigue thought. “It is not going to be like that, Theo. I swear it to you, as your brother. I am only doing what I must.”

Theo pursed his lips at that, dissatisfied with the level look Rodrigue gave him, but he returned to his meal and didn’t bring Rufus up again.

* * *

The last weeks until Dimitri’s birthday went by fast, as there was much decorating and arrangements to be made before the castle would look luxurious enough to keep Rufus satisfied. (As much as it was Dimitri’s celebration, it was important that Rufus got comfortable himself. A little _too_ comfortable.)

Most of Faerghus’ higher nobility would be there: the Gautiers, the royal family naturally (what little there was left it), Charons, Galateas, and even Rowes, though having them within glaring distance of the Charons was a recipe for passive-aggressive disasters. Though, Rodrigue supposed, that would serve as a welcome distraction for everyone else while he would be busy with his secondary purpose for the event.

The knife in his breast pocket felt heavier than usual those days.

Between the ball arrangements, Rodrigue went out to deal with bandits where they caused trouble. Clearing the roads of them was especially important so that Dimitri’s entourage would arrive safely – not that it wasn’t _always_ important to protect the people of his territory.

With the cold weather and harvest season long gone, the criminals seemed especially emboldened. But unlike the mercenaries from Fhirdiad (Ismael), these were easier to take care of. Rodrigue did not need to cast Aura often – good, for his body had begun to dread using it.

The limit was close to slipping to three, back where it had been in his teen years and early twenties. That was… worrying, to say the least, but he had never had the most endurance of his childhood friends anyhow.

He felt old, even though forty years were not that many.

More than Lambert and Glenn would ever get.

Felix attended to these duties sometimes with him. He was an observant, but by now Felix also carried a bronze sword at his side instead of a dagger.

At fifteen, he would be tasked with Kingdom business when necessary. The thought was unsettling, given what had happened to Glenn, but Rodrigue swallowed down the worry and took Felix with him regardless. He was a strong boy, both in mind and body.

Someone Dimitri needed at his side when the time came.

But before that, the ball.

* * *

Carriages began arriving the day before Dimitri’s birthday. Some arrived as soon as noon, and the last ones for the day slipped past the castle gates well past the early sunset. Most of the guests were of major houses, but exceptions such as Rowes and Galateas also appeared. Kleimans, who had received Duscur as their new lands, were absent.

He received the guests with Felix at his side, though the boy looked like he might die of boredom whenever he had to stand still for so long as five minutes at a time.

“Why must _I_ be here?” Felix grumbled. “This was _your_ idea, old man.”

“It is as much your upcoming birthday’s celebration as it is His Highness’, Felix,” Rodrigue reminded him after the Charons had been led inside the castle proper by a squire. At Felix’s wrinkled nose, Rodrigue sighed. “Besides, you wish to greet His Highness when he arrives, don’t you?”

“Dima’s been acting weird for a while now,” Felix grumbled as he adjusted the furred collar of his coat. Almost fifteen, Felix still looked like he might drown in his clothes. “I don’t know.”

“His Highness is having a hard time,” Rodrigue said, nodding as another carriage’s arrival was announced. “You must forgive him for… his moods.”

“He’s not the only one,” Felix said, anger tainting the undertones of his voice. “And it’s not about his moods, it’s about—”

“Felix, now is not the time,” Rodrigue said, very firm over the whistling winter wind. The courtyard was safe from the worst of the gale, but not all of it. Rodrigue brushed hair away from his cheek, tucked it behind his ear. “We are to celebrate His Highness, Ingrid, and you. Everything else will wait.”

If he were a little too preoccupied with what dishonorable thing he must do, who could blame him? He had tried to live true, even with the occasional missteps he had taken. But this – well, it didn’t sit well with him, though he knew one sometimes was forced to do unsavory things for the sake of something far more important than a single person’s discipline.

Too prideful people never got much done in the end, he reminded himself grimly.

The royal carriages arrived right before sunset. The crown prince and the Regent each had their own for them and their chosen company, and Rodrigue steeled himself as Rufus climbed out of the carriage, followed by Cornelia and some other of the court’s inner circlers. The crown prince’s carriage came to a halt behind them.

The Kingdom’s Regent dressed handsomely: the exact shade of blue Loog had been known to adore decorated his attire, only broken by bits of white and gold and a tinge of silver. Rufus rarely wore armor for these occasions, and he didn’t for this either. He extended his hand out to Rodrigue, who took it and bent his head down to kiss the ring that sat upon an index finger.

The ring held a sapphire in a tight embrace of metal, and Rodrigue recognized it with a sinking feeling. He ought to not have been surprised, though. It wasn’t just the signet rings Rufus had taken from his brother’s possessions.

The Crest of Blaiddyd had been engraved into the precious stone, and the ring threatened to slip down Rufus’ finger. Rodrigue kept his lips there for an appropriate number of seconds before pulling himself upwards and smiling. “I am relieved to see you and your company have arrived safely, Your Highness. The roads have been perilous, recently. Did you meet with any trouble?”

Rufus adjusted the thick cloak around his shoulders before shrugging and smiling much too indulgently. “Nothing much. Somebody’s been keeping the bandits scared stiff around here, it appears.”

“My knights have been hard at work, yes. I’m glad you recognize that, Your Highness.” He did not mean bite to come into his words, but Rufus frowned at him nevertheless. Rodrigue forced his smile wider and a tad softer. “Allow me to escort you to your quarters once I speak with His Royal Highness, as well.”

Dimitri had already gotten out of his carriage along with Dedue, who appeared awkward and stiff in the clothes he had been dressed in. The cause for his discomfort was obvious: beside the crown prince, the boy stood taller and bulkier, drawing eyes to himself unintentionally.

No teal adorned the Duscur boy’s outfit. Not surprising in the least. Rodrigue offered him a calm smile, and Dedue’s gaze dropped with his short, stiff bow.

Dimitri’s hand rubbed at Dedue’s elbow for a moment before the prince’s attention swiveled to Rodrigue entirely. “Lord Rodrigue,” he said as he too bowed. His blond hair was like a beacon of bright light amid the bleeding rays of setting sun. “It’s a pleasure to be in Fraldarius again after such a long time.”

Unlike Rufus, Dimitri adorned armor, though only up to his elbows: his hands were gauntleted, and the metal went up his lower arm and beneath the long-sleeved coat.

Rodrigue’s eyes rose to meet Dimitri’s clear gaze, and he smiled in return at the prince. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Your Highness. As ever, Felix has missed your company dearly. Is that not so, Felix?”

His son grumbled something vague in response, eyeing at Dimitri warily and with furrowed brows. “Come on, Dimitri,” he eventually said. The pout on his face was just as visible in his voice. “I’ll show you and – that guy to your rooms, and then we can go practice. Ingrid and Sylvain aren’t here yet.”

“His name is Dedue,” Dimitri said helpfully, a soft smile on his lips as he looked at Felix. “I would love to—” His gaze flickered hesitantly back to Rodrigue. “—if that is alright with you, Rod—Lord Rodrigue.”

“Of course,” Rodrigue said, a hand over his heart as he bowed. “Take your time. But, Felix, it is getting late, so do not keep His Highness distracted for too long. Supper is served at the usual time.”

“Yes, yes, got it,” Felix huffed, and soon enough the boys were off: Dimitri and Felix at front while Dedue followed more warily into the castle proper. Rodrigue’s gaze lingered on them for a while, before he sighed and turned to the remaining people from the royal entourage. His eyes met Rufus’. and again he smiled. “Shall we, then?”

* * *

Galateas arrived well past sunset, but just in time for supper, and so Ingrid joined Felix and Dimitri’s company at the table. Dedue ate in the servant chamber adjacent to Dimitri’s spacious one, but Dimitri looked distressed about making a friend eat alone when he mentioned it.

Felix’s scowls deepened at every mention of Dedue, from what Rodrigue caught with both his eyes and ears. It almost made him smile, seeing Felix behave so jealously, but his lips didn’t quite bend into the expression at that point of the night anymore.

Gautiers arrived the next day, and Rodrigue stood by tensely as Antoine and Rufus regarded each other in a manner more suitable to Nemesis and Seiros. Now that he knew where the roots of their mutual discord lay, he found himself angry as well each time he thought of it.

Hasty words led to the ruin of many great things.

But Rufus had made his choices, just as Antoine had, and that was why they were all there that day.

* * *

“I am sorry to ask this of you, Rodrigue,” Dimitri started off with a soft, apologetic voice, “but as you know, Dedue’s situation is… delicate. I do not think it wise he subject himself to… any unfortunate situations simply on account of accompanying me to the celebrations.”

Dedue sighed, discomforted by Dimitri’s words. “Dimitri— _Your Highness_ , there is no need—”

“I agree,” Rodrigue said gently. “His Highness makes a good point. If you are worried for him… I should think he is surrounded by more friends than he is in Fhirdiad. You need not accompany him every moment of the ball, not when they are likely to spout… nonsense at you.”

They were in Dimitri’s chambers, the three of them. At their words, Dedue’s expression tightened minimally, but he said nothing for a while as he mulled over what to say.

He was a tall boy – still growing, certainly, but he was already taller than most fully grown adults in Faerghus. With his wide build to accompanying it, he could be an intimidating presence, certainly, but intimidation tactics didn’t stop people from sputtering ill words behind others’ backs.

“If you are certain, Dimitri,” Dedue said at length, brows furrowed as if he were in pain. His voice cracked at the prince’s name, and so he clenched his jaw shut for a moment before resuming, “I would… be displeased if my presence ruined your birthday celebrations.”

“Dedue,” Dimitri scolded gently. “You could never do such a thing… I am far more concerned about you than any celebrations held for my sake.” His eyes flickered to Rodrigue as his hands absently fiddled with the sleeves of his blue-and-white doublet. “Pardon me for saying so.”

Rodrigue smiled and reached out to gently tug the prince’s hand away before he could tear the clothing. “No matter, Your Highness. I understand how you feel… and for that matter, I believe we can arrange something for Dedue, so he will not be bored waiting for your return.”

The arrangement was to take Dedue to Rodrigue’s private greenhouses to study the Faerghan flora and herbs that the healers and gardeners tended to. They were located a good way from the ballroom, as well, so guests were unlikely to come around by accident.

“The healers and gardeners will be more than glad to discuss the plants with you, if you like,” Rodrigue told Dedue, who Dimitri had described as being fond of plants and flowers. “They are not as… quick to draw conclusions as some of the people that arrived here with you two.” Rodrigue chuckled. “Besides, they haven’t had any apprentices since the time I was a teen… they’ll likely relish the chance to lecture you.”

Dedue seemed unsure, even as he followed Rodrigue with Dimitri. Yet he said nothing and allowed Dimitri to continue speaking in reassuring tones until they reached the low-roofed greenhouses in the castle’s private gardens.

The air in the greenhouses was thick with heat and moisture from the overabundant and liberal use of light magic, and the cold from the outside was immediately replaced with an uncomfortable heat that had all three of them tugging at their collars.

When they came out again, just two of them, Dimitri exhaled in relief. “Quite warm in there, despite the season,” he murmured. “Your mages have been doing a wonderful work cultivating the area, Lord Rodrigue.”

“They have,” Rodrigue agreed and squeezed at Dimitri’s elbow gently. “Come along now, then. Your uncle must be waiting impatiently.”

Dimitri’s smile turned strained at that, but he made not comment. With that, they made their way back to the castle proper through a light snowfall.

Rodrigue was not looking forward to it, but as long as his efforts produced _something_ , it would all have been worthwhile at the end of it.

* * *

Castle Fraldarius was not equal to Castle Fhirdiad in size, but one wouldn’t have noticed any difference once inside the castle walls. It made it easy for Dimitri to slip out of the celebrations and remain away for the rest of the night if he so pleased.

Rodrigue found himself wishing that Dimitri would not deem it fit to return later. He had caught sight of Felix dragging Dimitri out of the ballroom while the adults busied themselves with dancing and gossip. Felix wasn’t _subtle_ about it, goddess no, but Rodrigue found himself smiling in relief all the same.

Now, if Ingrid and Antoine’s son also were to leave, as well… then Rodrigue’s conscience would feel better about the next steps in the figurative dance he had chosen to engage in. A furtive glance around the ballroom revealed him nothing of those two’s situation, however, and so Rodrigue resigned himself to a few more rounds of dancing and sipping wine and laughing even if his heart was in none of those things.

Cornelia noted this, as her hand slipped to his shoulder at the start of another waltz. “You do not seem to be enjoying the ball you yourself arranged, Duke,” she said. Her voice and expression both were surprisingly soft as she regarded him through thick lashes. “Here I was hoping both the prince and you would lighten up a little.”

The song playing was once said to have been played at Loog’s wedding. None knew for certain if it was true, but Rodrigue knew well it had at least been played at Lambert’s first one. The flutes and the violins – the way the instruments interwove their sounds into the song could reduce a man to tears, if the joyous occasion of a wedding did not.

The wedding with Patricia was a groggy memory at best, though one would think he’d remember it better.

Rodrigue could not feel delight at the memory, as precious as it had been to see Lambert marry someone had had grown to genuinely adore. The joy from that day – Lambert’s, which Rodrigue had tried to make into his as well – would not return.

He made himself smile for Cornelia as they navigated through other dancing couples. Cold sweat clung to his neck, but he ignored it. “I cannot speak for His Highness, but I am the same as I always have been. Nothing more and nothing less, my lady.”

“You know so little of yourself,” Cornelia scolded him, and it seemed to Rodrigue that her cool mint eyes were laughing at him. Her feet followed his lead easily, the heels of her shoes click-clacking against the floor. “A typical symptom for men, I find. The Regent, as well…”

So, despite arriving at the same time, the two had yet to reconcile. Rodrigue’s smile turned more genuine, the icy and stiff feeling thawing from his face. “I believe I know myself well enough, my lady,” he said politely. “It is you I’m most perplexed by, if I may be frank.”

“How so?” Cornelia’s smile was sharp like a dagger, but her posture confidently relaxed as she let him lead their dance through the soft violin solo. Her hands were bare, and the pad of her thumb found the side of his neck. Rodrigue did not flinch at the unwelcome touch, and Cornelia’s smile widened subtly. “I am the same way as I ever have been, my good lord.”

There were many things sadder than it, Rodrigue thought, but watching a friend slip through his fingers as though she had never been there to begin with did bad things to one’s heart regardless. The summer of friendship was long gone now, replaced with winter gale.

“Is that so,” Rodrigue murmured. A step to the left to dodge another dancing pair. Over Cornelia’s shoulder, Rodrigue caught a glimpse of Rufus with his dark-haired partner. “Perhaps my worries have all been for naught, then.”

“You always worried so much about needless things on the late king’s behalf,” Cornelia said with a laugh that rang empty in Rodrigue’s ears. “And you’re watching over his son now. What you need, my dear, is a trip to the brothels. They have men there too, you know. A good night just for your own pleasures should remove that stiff look from your face.”

Rodrigue had spent more than enough time with soldiers to have heard enough innuendos, and yet the frank suggestion from Cornelia had his face grow warm. His jaw clenched, and he managed to say gently, “I fear there is no cure for my persistent worrying.”

“You are no use to anyone if you remain so vexed, my lord.” Cornelia’s smile twisted testily at the honorific, but her voice remained even and her thumb gentle on his neck. “Think of it as a suggestion from… an old friend.”

Rodrigue’s eyes slipped to Rufus’ back again. The blond ponytail swished back and forth with the regent’s movements, controlled and steady and very unlike the man himself.

If he weren’t so sober, he might mistake Rufus for Lambert.

“I… shall consider it,” Rodrigue said slowly, eyes tracing the firm set of shoulders. His heartbeat drowned under the loud string music as he looked at Cornelia again and smiled. “Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated, my lady.”

“One can look at another’s misery for so long without commenting on it, after all,” she said as the music slowed down and came to a halt. She curtsied to him, her bare shoulders flush with the chill of the castle. “Happiness is a choice, my lord. Make sure to choose it.”

* * *

He mulled over her words at one of the ballroom balconies, his arms resting fully on the stone rails as he gazed at the forlorn moon in the night sky. It was freezing cold, and the gardens below were covered in heavy piles of snow, which crunched under footsteps.

Several feet’s worth of steps.

The sound chased Rodrigue’s inward musings away and made him drop his gaze down below, where he caught a glimpse of reddish hair, and then blond and dark and blond again. Squinting, Rodrigue soon recognized the forms to be Antoine’s heir and the crown prince, accompanied by Felix and Ingrid as well.

Their whispers weren’t the quietest, but the background music drowned the words beneath it regardless.

Dimitri’s polite laugh was the one Rodrigue caught the easiest, and it made him smile softly as he pushed himself away from the rail once more.

The children had sneaked out, and with that, his time for stalling had as well.

 _Happiness is a choice_ , Cornelia had said.

Perhaps she was right.

He was turning his back on that choice, now.

* * *

Being happy meant, generally speaking, not being miserable. The two states could not exist at the same time, after all, unless one was… emotionally volatile and found their happiness to be an inexcusable wrong.

Rodrigue knew misery and happiness both well enough to say that his times with Rufus had often been borderline miserable.

And yet, there had been a tinge of satisfaction in that misery.

It was not the same thing as happiness, but for a time Rodrigue had believed it was the closest thing to happiness he was ever allowed to be after Nadia’s passing.

Rufus had kissed him with the aching intent to hurt; Rodrigue had kissed _him_ with the desperate intent to feel anything at all.

And for a while, during those long nights in Rufus’ bed, being miserable with someone hadn’t been so bad. It had been better than being alone; that was why he kept choosing Rufus again, again, and again until his heart was as bruised as his body.

To Rufus’ credit, he had never failed to make Rodrigue feel something.

* * *

Theo was, understandably, in a terrible mood as he watched the event on from the sidelines.

“I am going to _murder_ our King Regent,” he announced in a tight voice that suggested he was five minutes away from snapping completely and unsheathing the sword hanging at his side.

Rodrigue eyed at his hands warily. “I would hate to visit you in dungeons, Theo.”

Slowly, Theo unclenched his fingers and grabbed another goblet of wine. He squinted at Rodrigue and downed the wine without taking his eyes off his elder brother. Rodrigue could barely suppress a chuckle at that. Perhaps it was _Theo_ Felix got his… eccentricities from, after all.

“If he winks at my wife one more time,” Theo started.

“—your wife is likely to smack him senseless herself,” Rodrigue finished for him.

“I’ll bury the body,” Theo said sullenly and yet with all the seriousness of a man that intended to go through with his words. While most men of Faerghus played at loyalty to the crown, Theo’s undivided loyalty reached only his wife and family. It was something Rodrigue appreciated in him, though Theo’s hermit-like refusal to deal with politics was… challenging, at times.

“Wait at least until tomorrow,” Rodrigue said lightly, reaching out to squeeze Theo’s shoulder. In the background, the orchestra was settling down for a break, which was Rodrigue’s cue. With a sigh, Rodrigue said very seriously, “I have need of his company tonight.”

Theo sighed in return. “Do as you will, brother. But just as you worry for me, I worry for you. Don’t come back complaining about what a mistake it all was.” Theo’s lips pursed together, eyebrows knitting together hesitantly. “On second thought, feel free to do that. I don’t enjoy you keeping secrets from me.”

Theo might have been in his thirties already, independent as any other Fraldarius, and yet sometimes Rodrigue saw the same child that had shyly, with tears in his eyes, gripped at Rodrigue’s hand after a hide-and-seek gone wrong.

Rodrigue smiled, truly this time. “What kind of an older brother am I if I make my little brother worry so much over me?” He shook his head at himself, dismayed but smiling still. “Save a mug of ale for me, won’t you? I will need it later.”

Theo’s nod was resigned, a sign of surrender even as he rolled his eyes. “It had better be worth it, Rodrigue.”

 _It better be,_ Rodrigue thought as he waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder upon turning his back on his brother.

Rufus was still at the edges of the dancefloor, chatting up a lady. Or two. Perhaps trying to coax a dance out of one or both. Rodrigue forced a pleasant expression on and stepped toward the lion’s den.

* * *

Even with the disfigured nose tilting unevenly to one side, Rufus Blaiddyd was a handsome man. And perhaps that never straight nose made the appeal stronger, as men were proud of their scars and wielded them as merrily as they did swords.

Rodrigue wasn’t guiltless of the very same thing, though the scars he had were hidden beneath many layers of clothing. Rufus was familiar with most, save for the ones obtained during and after Sreng.

Lambert had learned each one of them on the one night they were given, and the thought still sent an ache rippling through Rodrigue even as he sipped wine with Rufus and laughed when Rufus expected him to laugh.

Rufus was taller than him, even taller than Lambert had been, though not by terribly much. The kind of man to be noticed, even if his personality was of a lesser man.

To his credit, though, he _was_ good in bed. Sometimes that was all one needed to get by in life, Rodrigue mused as he sipped at wine and observed Rufus from beneath his eyelashes.

“Why, aren’t you in a pleasant mood tonight,” Rufus commented as he laid a hand on Rodrigue’s back. The dancing went on in the middle of the ballroom, but they had this corner to themselves. Nowhere near private enough to avoid people’s eyes, but none lingered on them for particularly long to be any cause for worry.

The situation reminded him of Lambert’s first wedding. The music didn’t change the impression to any better.

“It is a pleasant night, after all,” Rodrigue murmured over the edge of his goblet. The wine was overly sweet on his tongue, as was typical for the Alliance’s drinks, but it eased his nerves and warmed his belly. Rodrigue’s smile softened as he looked up at Rufus’ familiar grey eyes. “A good drink in a… good company puts the mind at ease, wouldn’t you say, Your Highness?”

Rufus’ smile was one of disbelief, but it turned flattered as the regent laughed. “How many goblets of wine have you already had, Rodrigue? You’re not one to usually say such sweet things.”

“As you well know,” Rodrigue said through the aches on his cheeks, “life has been strenuous as of late. You were always one to enjoy the moment… and I have come to believe you haven’t been wrong in doing so.”

 _Lambert,_ he begged in his head, _please forgive me._

Rufus’ smile widened just enough to look just like Lambert’s. “I knew you would see it my way eventually, little Fraldarius.”

His hand dropped to Rodrigue’s waist, fingers pinching at the side of a firmly buckled belt. Rodrigue could smell the alcohol in his breath when Rufus murmured to his ear, “Are you as tired of sleeping alone as you were back then, yet?”

If Rufus stooped any lower, their heads would knock together, and perhaps then Rodrigue would reconsider his actions for the very near future.

Alas, it did not happen.

Instead, Rodrigue took a long sip of wine and let it burn down his throat before he mustered the strength to answer.

Again, he begged forgiveness: _I am sorry, Lambert, Nadia._

* * *

It did not take long for Rufus to lose himself to alcohol and for Rodrigue to suggest that perhaps it was time for him to retire for the night.

“Only if you keep my bed from going empty,” Rufus said and pinched at Rodrigue’s waist through the thick clothing. Rufus laughed, loud and thoughtless and perfectly in character for him, but he had the decency to follow Rodrigue out of the ballroom.

“His Highness, the King Regent, is retiring for the night,” Rodrigue explained to the passing servants, shaking his head when they offered help. “No, there is no need to assist me. The regent and I still have something to discuss before he rests.”

Some servant talk would be inevitable afterwards, but he could live with that, Rodrigue thought as he guided Rufus back to the chamber given to him for this brief visit. It was the room Lambert used to occupy during his stays, and Rodrigue supposed Rufus must have been happy about it.

He occupied so much of the space that had been Lambert’s once, now.

 _Are you happy,_ Rodrigue wondered as he led Rufus through a hallway after another, _now that you got what you wanted?_

The giddy, drunken smile on Rufus’ face seemed to suggest _yes_.

* * *

An uncorked bottle of wine waited for them in Rufus’ chambers when they arrived, and Rodrigue moved to pour some into a goblet that he then offered to Rufus.

“Your favorite,” he said and watched Rufus’ expression light up with surprise before it turned into its usual smarmy smugness.

“It seems to me,” Rufus drawled out before taking a sip, “that you were planning to get some alone time with me from the start.”

Rufus sat down on the edge of a king-sized bed and patted the space beside him.

In the fluttering candlelight, he looked a lot like Lambert with longer hair. Perhaps his lips would taste the same as Lambert’s had that one night.

Rodrigue’s chest swelled with the hurt, but he followed Rufus to the bed regardless and without a goblet of his own. He smiled demurely through the heartache as he sat down. “And if I were?”

“You acted so coy in the capital before,” Rufus snorted. His stare was glazed, slightly unfocused, and Rodrigue forced himself to relax. Just a bit more. “If change of scene was all it required, I should have—”

“There are too many memories in Fhirdiad,” Rodrigue acknowledged, tilting his neck when Rufus’ hand came to rest against it. The touch was repulsive and unwanted, but Rodrigue tolerated it as he tolerated many other things. He tugged off his gloves and laid them down beside himself, aware of Rufus’ gaze on him.

Was it shame that made his clothes feel so suffocating?

“And with Lambert’s death still – being the way it is,” Rodrigue said carefully, glancing at Rufus from the corner of his eye. He chuckled then, and it was a genuinely miserable sound. He felt like a fool. Perhaps this was a bad idea, after all. “How could I allow myself the freedom to seek joy?”

But Rufus didn’t seem to think twice about his words as he draped an arm around Rodrigue and pulled him closer to his side. “That’s always been your problem, Rodrigue,” Rufus murmured into his hair. “Always so damn serious and self-sacrificing.”

Rodrigue had never been readily accepting of physical intimacy outside of very few select people. Rufus was a special case in an awful way: at a certain point of time, physical touch had been an outlet for grief and frustration, not something to enjoy for its own merits.

It hadn’t been until that one night with Lambert that Rodrigue had again discovered how joyful such a thing could be. But Lambert was gone, his corpse long since rotted beneath Fhirdiad’s soil, and Rodrigue was only left with duty and an aching heart in a slowly ruining body.

“Lambert is gone,” Rodrigue said as he stood up. His fingers fumbled with the pin that kept his cloak around his shoulders. His eyes met Rufus’, and the eye contact remained steady as the cloak fell on the carpeted floor. “But you are still here.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but Rodrigue smiled and forced them out anyway. He brought his bare hands forward and cupped Rufus’ face between them as he said, softly, “I should have remembered that much. Forgive me.”

Rufus leaned into the touch like a man that had been denied physical affection for all his life. Rodrigue found himself feeling sorry for him as he studied Rufus’ glazed-over expression. This was a man that could have been much more under different circumstances; Rodrigue found that he rather regretted never getting the chance to meet the man Rufus could have been.

Even if he’d been half the man Lambert was, he still would have been a great one.

 _Goddess, lend me strength_.

Rodrigue leaned down and pressed his lips over Rufus’.

* * *

He remembered very little of his first few kisses, but what he remembered well was that Rufus took them. The very first one Rufus had stolen when Rodrigue was tipsy and a little heartsick – which might well have been his permanent state of being during the year at Garreg Mach – but the specifics of it had been lost to the passage of time.

It was for the best, in the end. Rodrigue much preferred to remember the year for its better aspects: mostly Lambert and his radiant presence and the joyful teenage foolishness that had seized them ever so often.

But one could not forget the memories shadowing the year, either: in Rodrigue’s mind, it all blended together into a mess, but things that stood out even years later were Rufus’ weight on him, the way his long and thing fingers curled around Rodrigue’s wrists tight enough to leave bruises for days.

“Am I good enough now?” Rufus had asked him somewhere down the line, during one of the long afternoons they spent splayed on Rufus’ bed.

Rufus’ eyes had been unfocused, then, and his voice tremulous as he repeated the question, “Am I?”

Rodrigue didn’t remember what he had done; he didn’t even know if the memory was real.

And yet, sometimes when he thought of the past, those words would come to his mind, whispered in the hoarse, angry voice of Rufus Blaiddyd.

* * *

Rufus tasted like wine and a spice Rodrigue could not give a name to. It wasn’t particularly delectable combination, but Rodrigue didn’t pull away from it either as he settled his hands down on Rufus’ shoulders and let Rufus pull him onto his lap.

Lambert was the last person he had kissed like this. A distracting thought that discomforted him and made him sigh and nearly pull away.

He was betraying Lambert’s memory, he knew. Making plans months and months before had been easy, but actually committing to and _doing_ it proved to be much more difficult.

Rufus smelled a little like Lambert, too, and that was what pulled Rodrigue away from the kiss, his usual composure broken like a vase dropped from a tall shelf. His eyes stuttered open, and a sensation similar to cold water thrown over him spread through him in that instant. Mortification and shame.

Rufus’ hands kept him from rising from the regent’s lap, however.

“Oh, you haven’t changed a bit,” Rufus laughed. For once, it was without Rufus’ usual mocking and sharp tone; only genuine warmth remained in that sound, amid the drunken lilt of Rufus’ voice.

Which was why the next words sounded so strange, lacking the usual venom Rufus would say them with: “Still thinking only about Lambert like a loyal lapdog, huh? Even his _wives_ didn’t bend over backwards for him as much as you do.”

“Rufus,” Rodrigue scolded, but it was too late.

“Then again, one of them died as soon as she had his kid and the second one hated his guts,” Rufus said, words slurring together not quite incomprehensively as he leaned in to nuzzle Rodrigue’s neck. He laughed giddily at his own words. “Lambert always knew how to pick ‘em, didn’t he?”

Rodrigue stiffened under Rufus’ touch. “Lady Patricia did not loathe Lambert,” he said, confused. His heart quivered with sudden fear, but he forced it away with a deep sigh. “Both of them loved him dearly.”

Rufus snorted. “That’s what it seemed on the outside, didn’t it?” Rufus’ teeth grazed at Rodrigue’s neck, but soon the regent was spitting out dark hair from his mouth until he resettled and pressed his lips on Rodrigue’s accelerating pulse. “That lady hated his guts, believe you me. I know a spurned woman when I see one.”

Rodrigue’s heart went utterly cold at that.

“It’s a shame, really,” Rufus said, unmindful of the shift in mood. His breath tickled at Rodrigue’s skin, his lips brushed against his pulse. It didn’t muffle his words, as much as Rodrigue wished it did. “Lambert could have had you ages ago, but instead he fell for a woman like that. Funny… but he always had the worst taste.”

_Quit it, Rufus._

Rufus lifted his head, as though he had heard Rodrigue’s thoughts. He nearly leaned back too far, but he rebalanced himself by gripping hard at Rodrigue’s waist, pulling himself back into proper posture.

It wasn’t Lambert’s effortlessly bruising touch, but –

 _Close enough_ , if Rodrigue allowed it to be.

But he had done that before.

Rufus smiled at him, not entirely there due to alcohol, and leaned in.

* * *

When Rodrigue re-emerged from the guest chambers, Theo was already waiting for him with a cup of ale in each of his hands. He handed both of them to Rodrigue, who downed the first cup’s contents in three swallows.

The bitter taste of the drink removed the lingering ashen feeling on his tongue, and slowly, he exhaled as he walked away with Theo.

“I told you so,” his brother said, obviously reading his mood from the face Rodrigue had made. “I _told_ you that you would regret it.”

For a while, Rodrigue did not say anything. The only sounds were their footsteps echoing off the stone floors as they walked down the hallway lined with both the Kingdom and Fraldarius banners. Home sweet home, but Rodrigue was too disturbed to find comfort in the familiar sights.

“It matters not whether I regret it,” Rodrigue said at length, voice heavy but not as heavy as the dragging feeling in his chest. Outside the windows, it was snowing. Rodrigue shivered, as though his body now remembered the cold, and corrected the cloak he had hastily redressed.

But there was little he could do to ease the dread in his heart and throat. Except drink a little more of bitter ale.

Theo’s narrow eyes studied him in silence for a few moments longer. He waited until passing servants had gone by before he opened his lips. “Rufus said something terrible to you, didn’t he?”

“Terrible, yes,” Rodrigue agreed softly, “and yet… terribly illuminating, as well.”

Most of the things Rufus said most times could be ignored, but there were times when Rufus’ words struck a chord by how… terrifyingly close to truth they were. Rodrigue suspected it was often by accident – Rufus had a very strict world view of his own that did not accept any outsider opinions into itself.

But when he was right, he was _right_ and damn sure of it, too.

And that was what made his comments on Patricia so worrying to Rodrigue, to the point where his heart twisted and his mind agonized over the implications behind Rufus’ confident statements.

Rodrigue downed the second cup of ale in four long sips.

He had thought the situation could not have been any worse, but – if this was true, and he had to prepare himself for the possibility that it _was_ – life appeared to find sick enjoyment in smiting him at every chance it got.

Very well, then.

Rodrigue might not be able to smite it back right then, but he was more than capable of playing the long game.

What were politics if not an eternal test at patience and willpower?

* * *

The celebrations ended well past midnight, and so most guests did not depart for their territories until well into the afternoon of the next day. Including Rufus and his royal entourage. Rufus seemed eager to linger and test Rodrigue’s patience, but eventually he and his companions – along with the crown prince and Dedue – left as well. Only then could Rodrigue breathe again.

Only then could he think again.

He shut himself in his study with the stern order for no one to disrupt him unless there was a case of emergency, and he began digging through the encoded reports he had received from his scouts months and months ago from Duscur.

The Gautiers and Galateas still lingered, for there were more conversations to be had, but Rufus’ words in regards to Patricia bothered Rodrigue far too much to let them slide for a moment longer.

And so he reread the reports of the aftermath in Duscur, of the damage and death that had scented both the plains and the forests of the land for weeks, if not months, afterwards.

All of the Royal Guard had been slain, and some corpses were so deformed they could not be brought home for how many pieces they had been in. Fraldarius scouts had confirmed those reports true.

But Patricia – Anselma von Arundel – was a different case altogether.

Cold dread filled Rodrigue’s stomach as he read one decoded report again and again, detailing the remarkable state of Patricia’s personal carriage despite every other carriage around it being in shambles or severely damaged.

 _Why_ , Rodrigue wondered, feeling faint as he leaned forward on the edge of his seat, _did this not strike me as odd before?_

Her corpse had never been found or brought back. Her carriage seemed untouched by the tragedy.

Was she –

 _Had_ she –

The last time he had spoken with Patricia came to Rodrigue’s mind unbidden, and with it came the taste of acid on his tongue.

Patricia had been particularly close to Cornelia, as well, to the point where Cornelia had rarely left the royal couple alone. It had grieved Lambert; he had written to Rodrigue about it on occasion as he felt the rift between himself and Patricia grow.

Lambert had been irreparably in love with her.

Rodrigue had never been able to tell if Patricia reciprocated his feelings or not, but he had thought it answer enough when Patricia had accepted the king’s proposal without much of an issue. He had thought – he had been happy for Lambert, as he had known he would never share his bed or be given room in Lambert’s heart in the same manner as his wives.

And yet.

Rodrigue read through the report again, but his mind was entirely elsewhere – on the afternoon he had followed Patricia into Castle Fhirdiad’s gardens and spoken of things he had meant to keep a secret long into his grave.

 _I am no threat to your marriage_ , he remembered himself saying with the same defeated feeling in his chest that he had carried with him since Lambert’s second wedding.

And Patricia – Anselma – she… she…

Rodrigue struck himself in the face as firmly as he had smacked Antoine mere moons ago. The sting of it dissolved his chaotic train of thoughts and caused the tightness in his chest ease off, even if only slightly, as he leaned back on his chair and listened to the fire crackling in the hearth.

Patricia’s – Anselma’s – corpse had never been brought back. Rodrigue had dismissed it before – Glenn hadn’t come back either – but now it was much more difficult to ignore such an obvious oddity. To ignore it would be to subject himself to willful ignorance. At least in this particular topic Rodrigue was well past that.

Rodrigue went through the reports again and would not stop until late into the night when his eyes ached and burned from staring at clumsily scribbled letters for such long periods of time.

Panic had dwindled, by then.

Even anger no longer simmered in his gut as he rose from the chair with his aching limbs.

What was left was steeling determination to see things through until the very end, no matter how deep and painful the conspiracy might turn out to be.

Friends might turn out to be foes, but such had been the case for most of Faerghus’ history – and very rarely had a Fraldarius hesitated when it came to handing down the king’s justice.

And House Fraldarius would not hesitate now, either.

* * *

Viscount Kleiman was not someone Rodrigue had had to deal with personally before, what with him being a minor noble with barely any land to his family’s name. Though that was not true anymore: the forests and mountains of Duscur were now Kleiman property.

That fact alone more than justified the suspicions Rodrigue held toward him and his family, but it also meant there was little room for error if Rodrigue did not wish to alert the man to his thoughts. Goddess only knew who the man had worked for, or if it was all for self-profit like Rodrigue assumed.

That said, it was entirely possible the man was innocent, despite the suspicious profits of the king’s untimely death.

But Rodrigue had long since shaken off the tendency to trust without proof, and so he held onto the wary suspicions.

The initial impression Viscount Victor Kleiman gave did not make it any easier to trust him. For the start of their correspondence, he had claimed to be _far_ too busy to even entertain the thought of dropping by for a visit in Fraldarius and that Rodrigue should come to him instead.

Rodrigue knew well how these games went, but he would be a liar if he said it didn’t tire him. There were times – every now and then – when he wished everyone could be a little more like Felix, who was straightforward to nearly a fault.

But then, he had yet to figure out what to say to his son while he knew how to manage the back-and-forth game of politics.

In any case, Rodrigue only had to stand his ground and keep a perfectly cordial tone in his letters while emphasizing that no, he indeed could not travel to the viscount’s lands at a time like this and what a shame it was as he had great many things about the viscount.

And so, a few weeks into Pegasus Moon, Victor Kleiman arrived at Castle Fraldarius with fanfare fit for a king – tacky and tasteless considering the situation, Rodrigue thought, but he received the viscount with the warmest of welcomes. Snow lay in thick piles around the castle yard, and the viscount seemed displeased but resigned to it.

“It is worse in Duscur,” he complained after the firm handshake the two nobles exchanged. “It makes me glad to be gone, rich land or not.”

Viscount Kleiman, it seemed, had a rather childish temperament. Rodrigue pursed his lips thoughtfully before smiling. “It must be quite… _challenging_ for you. Taking care of such land.”

Stolen, unjustly taken, but in the eyes of the law, Viscount Kleiman held the right to it somehow. No, not in the eyes of the law – in the eyes of the Regent and his companions.

Viscount Kleiman, a short man with a desperately covered-up bald spot on the top of his head, waved his hand dismissively as they climbed into the castle. “A man never refuses a reward, as they say,” the viscount said with levity unsuitable to Castle Fraldarius’ solemn hallways. “A good deed never goes unpunished, wouldn’t you say?”

“At least we’re rid of the beasts that ruled the land once,” the viscount continued. “That is a good thing. Our poor king would be proud that his death has been avenged.”

Rodrigue’s smile grew thin and tremulous, but he had always prided himself on his ability to keep a straight face regardless of situation.

No matter the rage that rose at the viscount’s words, he would manage it now, too.

“Our king was not to bloodthirsty as all that,” he could not help saying, though he kept his tone pleasant as he led his guest through the narrow passages towards a private parlor. “Tell me, viscount, do you prefer tea or coffee? I fear Fraldarius is lacking in the latter, but…”

“Tea suits me well, Rodrigue,” the viscount said thoughtlessly.

“How odd. I do not recall us being on first name basis.” Rodrigue threw a cool glance over his shoulder, and the viscount’s proud posture shriveled at it.

The viscount was an elderly man, but not yet at the age where he had trouble keeping up with his younger. Still, his steps slowed into a dragging pace as he groveled at Rodrigue. “Forgive my… transgression, my lord. It must be the traveling that had made me forget myself for an erroneous moment.”

“The travel is long from your residence to here,” Rodrigue acknowledged with an indulgent nod of his head. Their voices echoed off the stone walls around them, and the fabric of the Kingdom and Fraldarius banners did very little to soften their voices. The Fraldarius wolf, etched into a teal-colored flag, glared at them from all sides as they went on.

The good viscount’s eyes darted from one wolf to another. “It has been,” he said faintly, as if now realizing he might be in for a discomforting time at Castle Fraldarius. “As you well know, it is wintertime, my lord. The cold seeps even into the carriage. I must be still feeling its effects.”

“It is only natural,” Rodrigue agreed with good humor. From the corner of his eye, he saw the viscount begin to relax. “It is fortunate you managed to come. My son never returned from Duscur when he went there.”

Viscount’s jaw tensed at that, as people tended to do when death and tragedy was brought up. “Is that so?”

“He died to protect His Majesty,” Rodrigue continued on as he finally turned into a parlor and held the door open for the viscount. “A brave boy. All of us need to be a little more like him.”

“Undoubtedly,” the viscount said with a short, high-pitched laugh that sounded amusing from a man of his age and stature. “To die for one’s cause is a glorious thing, is it not?”

An odd, bitter taste filled Rodrigue’s mouth as he sat down at a table. Still, he smiled thinly as he regarded his guest with friendly gaze.

“Truly,” he agreed.

Which was why it shouldn’t have been Glenn dying for Lambert and Dimitri – but that was a thought best left unexamined.

* * *

In the end, the conversation didn’t result in anything concrete. Rodrigue learned much of the Kleimans’ situation, and he could make his own conjecture from there, but nothing even close to concrete proof was yielded to him.

As expected. But Rodrigue felt better knowing he was onto something, no matter how faint the scent of the crime was.

The facts were as followed: asides from the knights Rufus had dispatched, Kleiman had sent his to the scene first, as his previously lone castle was near the border to Duscur. They were not enough to subjugate the land on their own; for that, they needed the knights from the capital and Itha. And subjugate Duscur they did, until the vast forests were set ablaze and countless corpses littered the once lively peninsula.

As a thank you, Kleiman had received the destroyed land as his and his family’s feudal state.

Duscur was said to be just as rich in minerals as Sreng was. That was not a fact itself – rather, a popular rumor.

Asides from everything else – Lambert’s politics had been a hot topic among the less significant Houses for quite some time before the trip. Rodrigue knew well the whispers and the glares people shot at Lambert behind his back.

The renegotiation of the trade agreement with Duscur might well have been the last straw for some of the players in the conspiracy.

Victor Kleiman gained much from His Majesty’s death; gained even more from the subjugation efforts.

How to find concrete proof of it now, though, was a different matter altogether.

* * *

The year 1177 reached its twilight weeks after Felix’s birthday, which had been a solemn affair as most events post-Tragedy were. With late winter came no relief for the troubled hearts in Castle Fraldarius: whispers of a rebellious noble family in the west reached the territory, and as ever, the stories were wild and exaggerated but with some truths that could not be ignored.

No, it was not the Rowe family that rebelled.

No, miniature statues of the goddess Sothis hadn’t been burned – or so Rodrigue assumed upon hearing which family it was that decided that the throne should be theirs. They were religious, attended to holy ceremonies with perseverance most nobles didn’t have, but that was what made their rebellion all the more inexplicable.

For the church had granted the royal lineage to Loog’s family; how could they rebel against a heavenly ordain like that?

The promise of power. Rodrigue mulled over it on his way to Fhirdiad to answer Rufus’ summons, and the longer he ventured on the road to the capital, the surer of it he was. Faerghus had never been particularly _united_ in the way Adrestian Empire had once upon a time been. West and east were as different as light and dark, faith and reason. Western nobles didn’t hold so much power as the eastern lords – namely Rodrigue and Margrave Gautier.

House Rowe was one such noble family, but there were plenty others. Kleimans, for one.

The struggle for power had been glaringly obvious ever since Lambert’s funeral and juggling with the delicate balance was an exhausting task.

Rodrigue was _tired_. He longed for the simpler days of watching his boys train with their tutors and together – for the days he and Lambert spent discussing important things before getting distracted by the boys and their mischief.

But, as the city gates came to his view and he pressed his heels to Maribelle’s sides, he knew those days would never return. Glenn and Lambert were dead; only their legacies remained and were worth protecting. Worth honoring.

He was let into the city and later into the castle, and it did not take much time at all until Rufus sent a squire to come collect him from the stables as he was just getting his foot freed from a stirrup. The squire was a slender boy of fifteen, from the look of him, and Rodrigue smiled reassuringly at him before they were on their way to the castle proper.

Rufus, as always, was waiting for him in Lambert’s room. He had replaced the old pinewood table; now he sat at a flimsier desk made of wood grown in Adrestia. He always did have an expensive taste.

At this point, Rodrigue knew it was a power move. Or he had known all along, but now he saw it more clearly. What happened at Dimitri’s birthday ball had surprisingly undone the tight knot that was his feelings for Rufus.

The guilt was there, of course. Dishonorable deeds weighed on him; it was one thing to stray when one was young and foolish, but completely different for someone supposedly wizened by age. It was foolishness for the young, but damnable for the old.

But the damned thing had given him a new way to look at the tragedy in Duscur. It wasn’t without merit, and Rodrigue believed it now. No matter the pain that came with it as an uninvited guest.

The power plays Rufus practiced with him didn’t bother him anymore. Let him play what he wants, Rodrigue had deeper concerns to worry about. If he wanted Rodrigue to bend the knee to him, Rodrigue would let him have it.

But he would not repeat what had already happened between them in the past. In some strange way, Rodrigue felt more resolute than before on this, when he had feared about slipping into a bad habit again.

Age did bring _some_ wisdom with it, and so Rodrigue went on one knee and took the extended hand to press a kiss to the sapphire ring on Rufus’ finger. The stone was hard and tasted vaguely of polish.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue greeted as he let go of the hand. He raised his head to meet Rufus’ bored eyes. Even as he rose, his hand remained over his still beating and aching heart. “I came as soon as I received your summons. A rebellion, I heard.”

“Indeed, you heard correctly,” Rufus said, eyelids drooping and his hands restless as he fought back a yawn. “I would like you to join the suppression forces, Rodrigue. The command goes to the prince, so experienced back-up would be appreciated.”

Rufus tilted his head and sneered, “Who better for the job than the Shield of Faerghus himself?”

Fingers dug into Rodrigue’s coat at his chest, where a heartbeat quickened. “Pardon? I must have misheard. Who did you say the command goes to?”

When Rufus eased into a smile again, it was at Rodrigue’s expense. “Why, the prince of course. It is his throne to defend, is it not? I’m certainly not going to do his work for him.”

Of course he wouldn’t. He had skill with lance and horses just like Lambert and Dimitri, but getting Rufus apply them to anything these days was as likely as a snowless winter in Faerghus.

Rodrigue sat down to give himself a moment to breathe. His eyes never once wandered to the bed whose presence tugged at his mind like a fish teased at a fishing line. After what he had done, he had no right to even look at it. A small price to pay for a hint of truth.

“Prince Dimitri is fifteen,” Rodrigue said.

“Students of his age at Garreg Mach have dealt with much worse things,” Rufus said and leaned back on his chair, one arm thrown over its back. “Recall our days and all the monsters we had to deal with for the church’s sake.”

Fields of grass burnt to dust, screams of pain, the strain of white magic in the form of a Fortify spell. The memories flashed through Rodrigue’s mind, until he sighed and set his hand down on the table. “You were in your twenties. His Majesty and I turned eighteen during our stay there. It was different. His Highness is…”

“A growing boy that needs to face the reality of the territories he is to protect as a ruler,” Rufus cut him off. He eased off the cravat from his throat but didn’t take it off as he sighed and added, “A useless king is no good for anyone, as you know. Lambert went through similar things.”

“He did not have to quell a rebellion, Rufus.” Not at fifteen. “As the Regent, it would be prudent for you to handle it yourself.”

“In three years, he will ascend the throne, unless he’s at Garreg Mach at the time,” Rufus pointed out, rolling his head at Rodrigue’s dismay. “A dog doesn’t train itself unless its owner makes it. Besides, it’s only one noble family. They don’t even have House Rowe’s support. Suppressing it shouldn’t be too taxing for the young prince.”

Rufus studied him, waiting for his response with furrowed brow.

Rodrigue leaned back and let his eyes glance over the chamber. What had been a sparse, almost austere room in decoration was now rich with color and extravagance. Large vase made in the current Leicester style stood in the corner beside the bed, little ways off from the ebony nightstand. Rufus lay on the chair just tilted enough for a glimpse of the bed to show if Rodrigue were to look. Rodrigue saw the crumpled sheets before he looked down to his hand and the table beneath.

He hadn’t expected Rufus to change, no.

“It is as you say,” he said and bent his neck in agreement. Glenn took up the sword the late king had handed to him at fifteen. Dimitri would chase those footsteps, but not to his grave. “I will see to His Highness’ safe return.”

Rufus’ lips twitched into a smile. It didn’t soften his voice any. “Do as you will, then. The prince is making his own preparations as we speak. Naturally, he may borrow from my knights as he pleases, should Fhirdiad or Fraldarius reserves prove lacking.”

“They will not,” Rodrigue said and stood up. His gaze stayed away from the bed and on Rufus. “Pardon my hasty exit, but as you have stated, I have much to prepare for myself.”

“Of course, of course. I would _hate_ to keep you from your duty, Rodrigue.” Rufus offered one last sarcastic smile before dismissing Rodrigue with a flippant wave of a hand.

The door closed with a loud thud in Rodrigue’s wake.

* * *

At fifteen, Dimitri still had to tilt his head up a little to meet Rodrigue’s eyes. Unlike before, he no longer had to peer through a thick veil of blond hair; the fringe of blond was shorter now, lying unruly against Dimitri’s brow but no longer brushing at the tip of his nose.

Rodrigue could barely resist the urge to brush at that shorter fringe now, despite the lack of need for such.

Instead, he smiled at the prince and bowed his head low. “Your Highness,” he said. “I have heard of the task you have been assigned to. Allow me to assist you the best I can.”

Dedue, who had sworn himself to Dimitri’s service recently for good, observed them from across the room, a polite distance away to afford the two a conversation without getting himself involved. He merely sat there and watched on, surrounded by the cold walls of Castle Fhirdiad.

Dimitri’s eyes wandered to him briefly before he smiled faintly at Rodrigue. The worry lines between his eyebrows were steep. “I thank you for that, Rodrigue. I am doing what I can, but as my father always told me, alone we can achieve only so much.”

His voice cracked, but Dimitri masked it with a sheepish cough. A faint flush rose to his cheeks. “Forgive me. My voice… well. I am not very useful for speeches at the moment.”

“No need for that, Your Highness,” Rodrigue laughed. “I have also been your age once. I remember how it was.”

Cracking voices, clumsy and sweaty hands, and laughter shared with equally flustered and clumsy Lambert, whose hair fluffed up after a day of training and studying. The smell of sweat. The non-taste of water. Iron lances and swords clashing and swirling with their footwork and Gustave’s sharp command for Rodrigue to straighten his stance.

And later, the heart-wrenching first love that made his hands even clammier than gripping an iron lance did.

Memories were like candles: they did not always burn but when they did, they cast both warmth and shadows to lick at walls around them. And some were never lit again after the first time.

The room they were in was for weapon storage. Iron and steel lances put away into large jars and hung on the walls along with rapiers and maces and spears. Dimitri held a rapier, its tip nearly grazing at the floor as Dimitri’s attention had abandoned the blade.

Rodrigue had never been particularly talented with the sword. Yet he could tell at a glance the weight of the rapier and how he should grip it for most effective use. His father had made him hold Sword of Moralta and told him, “Those who know their weapons are at an advantage to those who only know themselves.”

_Luckier still are people who know that they are weapons. They are spared from much nonsense._

Rodrigue patted off dust from Dimitri’s shoulders that widened with each passing month. “Picking out your tools for the job, Your Highness?”

“Oh, yes. Kind of.” Dimitri’s mouth twisted before he went on, “Handling a weapon always calms me, and there is enough hassle around the castle… My uncle has decreed it that we should head out as soon as possible. A day or so after you and Felix’s arrival.”

Dimitri blinked, as though awakening from a stupor. The dark circles under his eyes stood out even in the pale light the candles around the room provided. Gauntleted fingers squeezed at the hilt of the rapier. “Speaking of which, where is Felix? I had heard he came, too, but…”

“Where else would he have gone, Your Highness?” Rodrigue chuckled. “He has joined the knights at the training grounds, of course.”

“I should like to join him, I think.”

“By all means, Your Highness. I will escort you there.”

* * *

The previous Duke Fraldarius had a name like all mortal men did, but Rodrigue only ever knew him as his strict lord father. As a child, he used to go to their castle’s training grounds with his lady mother to watch the Duke train his soldiers like some might go to arenas to watch untrained fighters beat each other up.

Duke Fraldarius didn’t beat his soldiers up. He danced them. His feet glided across the sandy floor of the training grounds and his arm flew his sword to parry blow after blow until he thrust the weapon at his partner.

The edge of his blade often drew blood, and so Duke Fraldarius spent as much time cleaning his sword as he did using it.

Those were the times when the duke was at his most amicable. Once a week, Rodrigue would sit watching him clean his blade, the calloused fingers working carefully with a piece of thick fabric and a bottle of oil.

Neither of them ever spoke during those times. Through the floors above the training grounds, wind whistled by. 

Duke Fraldarius’ hair would often be loosened from the high ponytail he tied it into, and it would fall in chaotic rivulets down his back and face. He would never bother tucking any of it away as he cleaned his blade without once wrinkling his nose in distaste.

But the hair never hid the dark lines beneath his lord father’s eyes.

A weapon never rests, he had once said, and neither does a shield.

* * *

Felix would squire for Dimitri. Rodrigue didn’t know many knights that would tolerate his son’s ever sharpening tongue.

But no matter how sharp his tongue, Rodrigue took comfort in the fact that it would never be the blade that killed Dimitri.

* * *

The spring had arrived weeks ago, and yet blood and snow decorated the streets of the town as Rodrigue rode through it in the aftermath. Corpses were piled up to the wagons, none that were their side’s. By all accounts, it was a victory easily achieved. The lance strapped to Rodrigue’s back dripped with blood still. The tips of his gloves were burnt black, and his fingers curled around his horse’s reins.

More corpses and blood lined the town’s streets, and through the air rang loud wailing. The hoofbeats drowned under it.

The damage to the town property was minimal, occasional busted sign or door aside. Rodrigue made his way to the inn that the suppression troops had gone to rest. A nondescript two-story building, whose paint job had seen better days. The stables at its side were full of horses, none of which had enough hay to graze on.

Rodrigue left Maribelle to a stable boy and ventured inside the inn. He found Dimitri the dining hall with a few other soldiers, his head held low and hands mechanically cleaning a steel lance. Dedue stood aside, face stiff with weariness. 

Nowhere in the hall did Rodrigue see a hint of Felix.

“Your Highness,” he called out. “The clean-up is well on its way. How fare you?”

Dimitri’s shoulders hunched forward at his voice, but his head snapped up like a frightened animal. “Oh, Rodrigue. You startled me.”

Rodrigue bowed to his prince before sitting down beside him. Dimitri’s hair stuck out haphazardly, and amid strands of blond, the sticky blood stains stood out. And under Dimitri’s eyes – the same color and shape as Lambert’s – lay dark crescent bags from restless nights.

“Forgive me. It has been a long day, hasn’t it?” Rodrigue said gently. His eyes darted to one of the half-open doors that led deeper into the inn. “Are you up for eating? I smell a lovely scent coming from the kitchens.”

“No,” Dimitri said tremulously. His hands remained unshaken against the steel of his lance. “I don’t think I am.”

Maiden battles always took something from a person. Dimitri was unluckier than most; life had already taken too much from him and not given enough in return.

But Rodrigue could not stay, as much as Dimitri needed him to. As he retreated from the dining hall, Rodrigue heard the shuffling of feet and the soft thump of someone sitting down. He glanced over his shoulder – Dedue was now beside Dimitri, a hand on Dimitri’s elbow as he spoke quietly to Dimitri beneath the low chatter around them.

On the contrary to Dimitri, Dedue’s hair sat undisturbed in the ponytail it had been tied into. His clothes were clean, devoid of blood, and regret pulled Dedue’s posture down.

Rodrigue knew well how it felt like to not have been there by his liege’s side at the most crucial moment.

* * *

Rodrigue found Felix in one of the inn’s bedrooms. They were, on the contrary to the inn’s façade, well-furnished and clean, with no squeaking planks to announce an intruder’s arrival.

Felix sat in the corner of the room, head buried to his knees and a barely sheathed sword tossed over to the bed. Splatters of blood had sept into the sheets.

“Felix,” Rodrigue said and halted by the foot of the bed.

“Go away,” Felix said into his knees. Despite how muffled it was, Felix’s voice crackled with distress. “I don’t want to see you or him – any of you—”

On the floor planks, a trail of blood followed Felix to where he sat and Rodrigue peered into the corner. The arms that held his knees together bled through the teal shirt. The blood hadn’t dried yet.

Rodrigue bent down to get a closer look at the wound, but Felix squirmed further away. “Felix,” he scolded. “You’re wounded. You should know better than to leave it untreated by now.”

Glenn had carried infections like a wild animal when he was young because he refused to keep his wounds bandaged properly. Rodrigue was often on the road, and the clerics had believed magic ought to not be wasted on unthreatening wounds. Eventually one bad infection had left a dark scar on Glenn’s leg. It never flared up or affected him significantly, but Rodrigue had worried for a long time.

“I don’t need it,” Felix grumbled, head between his knees and voice a little clearer but still choked up.

Stubborn boy. Rodrigue didn’t have time to be coaxing him much longer if he wished to attend to the business that had been on the back of his mind for a long time, since he had first returned from Castle Charon some months after the Tragedy.

Rodrigue eased himself onto the floor and reached for Felix’s arm, healing magic already emerging to the tips of his fingers. Drawing it out after a battle still felt like burning a candle on both ends.

“Let me take a look at it at least, Felix,” he said. “I can call another healer if you wish. But at least let me assess the—”

Felix’s hand lashed out then, its knuckles beating into Rodrigue’s cheek faster than Rodrigue could have expected. The smacking sound echoed in the small bedroom until deathly silence fell between them. Felix’s face was uncovered then – revealing the trails of tears that had begun to dry on his cheeks.

Half of Rodrigue’s face stung from his son’s punch, but he managed a weak smile in spite of it. “Very well, Felix. I’ll only leave some bandages and something for cleaning the wounds. You know the procedure well enough.”

Felix said nothing, and so Rodrigue retreated and went through the pouch at his side. He dropped the bandages and the cleaning liquid before Felix before standing fully up and inhaling. The stinging on his face would last a while, but it mattered little.

“I have business to tend to in the Gaspard region,” Rodrigue said on his way to the door. “When you can, please check on how His Highness is holding up, too. I should return by tomorrow morning.”

When he closed the door, it felt as though he was exiting a tomb, so still and quiet it was. Like walking out of the infirmary that had contained Lambert’s body and separated head. The nausea was the same. Yet again Rodrigue could do nothing but walk away from it.

* * *

Maribelle whickered her annoyance at him as they departed from the town once more.

“Shush, little lady,” Rodrigue murmured as he encouraged her into a trot, “we didn’t do much in today’s battle to begin with. A little ride shouldn’t vex you so.”

There was snow out there too, but quickly it changed into a muddy landscape as Rodrigue ventured further into House Rowe’s allied territories. The winds brushed past him, and Maribelle’s hooves slammed into the soft ground all the while Rodrigue grit his teeth and bore the stinging pain flaring on his cheek.

The ride to Castle Gaspard took four hours with few breaks. By the end of it, Rodrigue’s thighs were numb from the wet, the cold, and the strain. But Castle Gaspard stood before him, as sturdy as any Faerghan fortress save for even sturdier Arianrhod, and Rodrigue had a mission to attend.

The castle town was small but bustled with life. Some even smiled and laughed; a few men hollered at Rodrigue upon recognition. A couple of merchant wagons trailed the streets but were soon surrounded by people with needs far greater than what one merchant could provide for. It had been a long winter, and malnourished faces were the rule rather than the exception.

Rodrigue thought of Galatea. He hadn’t heard from Hans in a while, but knew Ingrid had picked up pegasus riding alongside with horses. The last time he had seen her was—Dimitri’s birthday celebration mere months ago. The thought of her brought the thoughts of Glenn along, and Rodrigue could not help the weighty sigh that left him. A pair of children ran past him: two brothers, of whom one was a head shorter than the other. His gaze followed them until they were out of sight.

He rode through the streets until he rose to the small hill where the castle overlooked the town. He was stopped at the gates, but one look at the clasp of his cloak – at the symbol etched into it – sent the guards into stiff salutes and a promise to send for Lord Gaspard as quickly as possible.

Rodrigue was let into the castle grounds soon after, and he followed the squire guiding him to the stables.

“I won’t be staying overnight,” Rodrigue told the stable boy he handed the reins off to. “Unsaddle her for the moment, but make sure she’ll be ready to leave before sunset.”

Lord Lonato of Gaspard waited for him by the entrance hall, looking for all the world as though he had aged twenty years in mere two. His hair had gone white, though some gray streaks still ran amongst it. The wrinkles on his face had deepened, and even the smile he now offered to Rodrigue looked like a wrinkle across his lips.

“What an unexpected visitor,” Lonato stated with the voice of a man that had lost all pleasure in life. Try as he might to even it, the deadpan tone cracked into his voice. “To think that Duke Fraldarius would come all this way just to visit a small castle such as this.”

Rodrigue bent his head, a hand curled into a fist over his heart. “As it happens, I was in the area to accompany His Highness Prince Dimitri in suppressing a rebellion. As it is now under control, I saw it fit to drop by for a visit… Do forgive me for dropping by without so much as a warning, though.”

“I had heard as much,” Lonato admitted as Rodrigue rose. His eyes narrowed and focused on Rodrigue’s face, and a few seconds of silence followed. “It seems as though one of them got close enough to strike the Shield of Faerghus himself to the face.”

“No, that would be my son.” Rodrigue laughed through the lump in his throat, his hand now falling to his side. Quivering. “Boys will be boys, as they say.”

Lonato gestured for him to follow, and so Rodrigue did.

“I heard your son died in Duscur,” Lonato said as they climbed up the stairs leading to the castle’s great hall. The Kingdom’s banners brought the only splash of color to the building. Cold and gray, like the rest of the country. Like Rodrigue himself.

“I had two sons,” Rodrigue corrected the other lord. His fingers twitched, and the numb feeling spread further. “Glenn died, but Felix lives.”

“A relief, I’m sure.” Lonato’s expression fell into a frown. “Although there is no replacing the son that was lost.”

“That is so,” Rodrigue agreed. Like the flowers at Glenn’s grave, the grief too would wither away eventually. So far, it had outlived dozens and dozens of flowers. The echoing steps of their feet rang through the hall like church bells. The polite smile on Rodrigue’s face collapsed.

“I heard about Christophe,” he said at length, looking straight forward. “It is late, but you have my condolences.”

Lord Lonato didn’t miss a step, but his words carried a horrible weight when he spoke again. A weight that Rodrigue knew well himself. “He was my only trueborn child. The kindest soul there was. And yet… they accused him of such horrible things.”

“I heard as much,” Rodrigue said quietly. "Was there any proof for such claims?”

He knew of Christophe Gaspard in passing, nothing more. The image Rodrigue had of his in head was of blurry colors and poor paint, mixed in with the taint of suspicion.

“No,” Lonato said. Paused. Spoke again with a harder voice. “That woman from House Charon. She blamed it on Christophe. You must have heard of it as well, Duke Fraldarius. The church took her at her word, and…”

Lonato’s boots clashed harshly on the floor of the great hall they now stepped into. There was more color on its walls, but most were lined with banners and suits of armor, all of which glowed cold and silvery under the brief touch of sun. The several rows of pews took up most of the space at the center. The statue of Seiros that had once stood before them was no more.

“Executed him,” Rodrigue finished when Lonato couldn’t. “It was a sad tale.”

And a hasty one.

“Christophe would never have assisted in such an atrocity,” Lonato said wearily, but anger seeped into his voice with each word. “And the church has refused to answer my queries on the matter. What am I to do, Duke? My son is dead, and I know not why.”

Rodrigue sat down on the last of the pews and waited until Lonato came down with him. The Great Hall of Castle Gaspard was as silent as a cathedral for a few seconds longer until Rodrigue parted his lips. “I know your heartache well enough, Lord Lonato. My son died protecting His Highness, but the sorrow the dead leave behind is the same, regardless of why they died.”

The difference: he could find enough comfort in Glenn fulfilling his duty to the end to be able to sleep at night; Lonato had no such luxury of comfort, only shame and denial.

“Yes,” Lonato agreed. His shoulders sagged forward, and from the corner of his eye Rodrigue saw Lonato’s hands fold into a praying motion. “It certainly is.”

In the distance, the sound of shoes clicking against the stone floor strode on. Outside, the wind howled its somber tunes. Even the sun’s light shone cold against the castle walls and halls. At times it felt like the entire country was stuck in a somber soliloquy for Lambert.

Rodrigue closed his eyes. “I recall,” he said slowly, “that you were once the Regent’s retainer.”

“I was.” Lonato sighed with a different sort of exhaustion. “I look back on those days sometimes. Quite like his little brother in some aspects, but quite different in others. It has been years since I last saw the man. He wasn’t at His Majesty’s funeral, was he?”

“He was for a short moment.” But he had made no speeches. Hadn’t carried the casket along Fhirdiad’s streets nor struggled under the weight of it. “For the sake of appearing there, more than anything else.”

“He always was more about appearances than substance,” Lonato sighed. “I fear he has not changed much from the days I spent serving him.”

“Given the current state of our country,” Rodrigue said neutrally, “we should assume so.”

“It is you that has to wrestle him for the young prince,” Lonato sighed. His voice was that of a man that had been witness to many of Rufus’ mischiefs. “I cannot say I envy your task, Duke.”

“I should worry if you were envious of that,” Rodrigue laughed and leaned over to pat Lonato’s shoulder. Under his touch, it felt fragile and thin, much like the man himself appeared. Rodrigue’s smile faded into a frown. “Did Rufus ever mention anything… outside his usual affairs to you, when you were still under his service? Or afterwards.”

Rufus’ drunken laugh and the smell of his breath rose from Rodrigue’s memories. _Lambert sure knew how to pick ‘em,_ he had said – or something close to it. _One wife left him by dying and the other one hated his guts._

_I know a spurned woman when I see one._

Rufus had hated Lambert for so long; it should not be a surprise he would recognize the emotion on another.

Rodrigue’s fingers curled and pressed gently into Lonato’s shoulder as he sought eye contact with the other. “This may well be important. Think through it.”

Lonato shook his head. “His Highness has never been in the habit of confiding in me, not even when it was my job to follow after and train him.”

Many years had passed since Lonato had left Rufus Blaiddyd’s service; Rodrigue was not surprised that he didn’t know much what went on in the king regent’s head right then. And yet, it disappointed him and made his hand fall limply from Lonato’s shoulder back to his own lap.

Christophe was a dead lead. Cassandra was gone. And there was nothing to be done about Patricia – were she alive, she would not still be in the Kingdom. The thought of her strangled Rodrigue; from the moment Rufus had uttered those words, he had not known peace.

“Thank you for your time, Lord Lonato,” Rodrigue said, standing up. A headache was forming behind his eyes, but he ignored it as he bowed his head to the other lord. “A brief conversation was all that I required. I will be heading back to His Highness and the troops now.”

Lonato stood, as well. “You are much like your father,” he said. “Always in a hurry from one place to the next… but you’re more of a people person than he was.”

“Thank you,” Rodrigue said. “My father knew well the importance of time and how to not waste it.”

Often trampling on people’s emotions by accident. In the pursuit of king’s justice, there had never seemed to be time to consider how people around him felt and how they might suffer.

Rodrigue feared he was turning that way, too.

* * *

His father’s swordplay was like watching flames dance. Beautiful and fluid from afar, but unbearably violent up close. The sword of Moralta gave the dance an ethereal blue hue; try as he might, Rodrigue could not look away even as the sword cut into a bandit’s neck, straight through the hollow of his throat.

The blood spurted out in streams, down the bandit’s neck and onto the duke’s extended arm. The teal arms of his shirt soaked in the crimson. Around him, the battle went on, but Duke Fraldarius stood still as if in a painting.

His lips mouthed something, but Rodrigue did not hear the words over the noise around them.

The Sword of Moralta glowed blue still even as it tore apart a man’s throat.

Rodrigue looked away, despite having been told to watch.

He was thirteen. He did not yet know killing was not the worst thing he would do for Lambert’s sake.

* * *

As 1178 trailed on, the bandit problem too remained – worsened, even, in the same way dark snuck up on people nearly as soon as noon had passed in the dead of the winter. As soon as Rodrigue returned from inspecting his territory up north at the Gautier border, he would be called out to south where several villages were under a raid.

Not a month passed without at least two trips across his territory to defend those who could not defend themselves. Felix often came along, not that it did much to improve their relations.

The problem was especially bad on the road leading to Itha.

One time Rodrigue managed to catch one of the ravaging men alive, and he confessed: “Me ‘n me boys are from Itha… land been ruined with illness and our dear ol’ Grand Duke ain’t nowhere to be seen to deal with it… not him, not his knights.”

He had spat at the mention of Rufus.

A sentiment Rodrigue shared with the man.

* * *

By this point, he had discovered a few more of Rufus’ bastard children. One of them was in Fraldarius even; it made protecting them easier, though it infuriated Rodrigue to no end that Rufus had fooled around even there and without him knowing.

_Is that jealousy I detect?_

Just as infuriating was Rodrigue’s uncanny ability to replicate Rufus’ exact tone and words in his head. A hint of despair accompanied it: he hadn’t thought it possible but little by little Lambert’s voice receded from his memories. Glenn’s he couldn’t forget.

He knew the words Lambert would use, but the intonation and the exact voice—

Rodrigue mourned the loss of memory as much as he mourned Lambert himself.

* * *

At night, right before he would fall asleep, he sometimes felt the phantom touch of Lambert’s thick, calloused fingers on his cheek. They would begin their trail down from his temple until they reached the curve of his jaw, where they stopped for a breath of a moment.

Sometimes, in the daze of half-sleep, Rodrigue would feel the touch of something soft on his lips. A barely there sensation that lulled Rodrigue into proper sleep.

If he were more superstitious, perhaps—

But no, it could only be his imagination.

* * *

1178 passed without a single chance to visit Fhirdiad. It was regrettable, but the chaos in his own territory demanded too much of time and effort that could not be spared for a trip to Fhirdiad. Rodrigue wrote to the regent and the prince as often as he could. Only one of them never failed to respond to his queries.

1179 arrived with new need for letters: this time to Antoine and Hans, the heads of houses Gautier and Galatea. Some might even call them friends, but the truth of it was that politically they all depended on one another.

True friendship, he thought even as he penned those letters, had been cast aside since they had taken on the roles life had assigned to them.

Even so, both these letters began the same way: _Dear friend, do you recall the promise we made long ago that we should send our children to Garreg Mach together…_

1180 was but a short year away.

**Author's Note:**

> First of, what I hope, to be three chapters? Who knows, I certainly don't! The tagged characters are semi-important for this chapter and will make, uh, appearances in following chapters too. I'll tag other important characters (coughs Rufus Blaiddyd) when they get important in later chapters.
> 
> If you liked what you read, feel free to leave a comment! This fic has been possessing me since November, lmao, so any feedback at all is welcome.


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